Chapter 6
THATCHER
Gwen sleeps curled on her side, one hand tucked under the pillow, breathing steady and slow. The bruises on her face are changing color, but they're still visible.
I stayed awake longer than I should have, watching her sleep, cataloging the way she curls into herself even in rest. Protective instinct or just how she's wired—I can't tell yet.
When I finally slept, it was deep. Better than I've slept in years.
She stirs, eyes opening slowly and focusing on me still in bed beside her,.
"You stayed," she says, voice rough with sleep.
"Where else would I go?"
"I don't know. Back to maintaining professional distance?" But she's smiling slightly. "Reasserting boundaries?"
"Tried that. Didn't work."
She shifts closer, and I pull her in. She fits against my side like she belongs there, and maybe she does.
"What time is it?" she asks.
"Zero-six-hundred."
"You're very military in the morning."
"I'm very military all the time. You're just noticing now because you're not unconscious."
She laughs against my chest. "Fair point."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Text from Rivera:
Need to talk. Call when you can.
I show it to Gwen. "NCIS update."
"That can't be good at six in the morning."
"Probably not." I dial Rivera, put it on speaker.
"Caine," Rivera answers immediately. "We've got a lead on the office break-in. Security footage caught someone entering the admin wing at oh-two-hundred. We're running facial recognition now."
"How long until you have an ID?"
"Few hours, maybe. I'll update you when we know more." She pauses. "How's Dr. Abernathy?"
Gwen sits up. "I'm here, Agent Rivera. And I'm fine."
"Good. Stay that way. We're close on this." She disconnects.
Gwen flops back against the pillows. "They're close. That's good, right?"
"Should be. But close is when people get desperate."
"You're very reassuring."
"I'm very realistic."
She turns to face me. "So what do we do while they're being close?"
"Normal routine. You've got surgeries today?"
"Not until this afternoon." She traces a pattern on my chest, absent-minded. "We could just... stay here for a while."
Everything in me wants to say yes. Pull her closer, ignore the world outside this bedroom, pretend protective details and federal investigations don't exist.
But my phone buzzes again. Hayes this time:
Team dinner tonight? Santos wants to meet the doc.
I show Gwen the text. "My guys want to come over. Meet you properly."
"Tonight?"
"If you're up for it. I can tell them no."
She considers. "Actually, yeah. I'd like to meet the people you trust."
"You sure? They're going to ask invasive questions and make inappropriate jokes."
"I'm a surgeon. I've handled worse than inappropriate jokes."
"You haven't met Sullivan."
She grins. "Now I'm intrigued."
I text Hayes back:
1800. Tell Sully to behave.
Hayes responds immediately:
No promises.
"This is going to be a disaster," I say.
"Probably. But at least it'll be entertaining."
We get up. I make coffee while she showers. Normal morning routine except nothing about this is normal. There's a woman in my shower using my towels, and instead of feeling like an intrusion, it feels right.
When she emerges, hair damp and wearing my spare t-shirt because she forgot to grab clothes, something in my chest tightens.
"What?" she asks, catching my expression.
"Nothing. Just—" I hand her coffee. "You look good in my shirt."
Color touches her cheeks. "It was the closest thing. I can change—"
"Don't."
She takes the coffee, but there's awareness in her eyes now. The space between us charged with everything that happened last night.
"We should probably talk about this," she says.
"About what?"
"About the fact that we're sharing a bed and kissing and generally ignoring every professional boundary that should exist between protective detail and client."
"You're not a client. You're a person under my protection."
"That's a distinction without a difference."
"No, it's not." I lean against the counter. "Client implies a transaction. This isn't transactional."
"Then what is it?"
Good question. "Complicated."
"We established that last night." She takes a sip of coffee. "I'm asking what we're doing about the complicated part."
"Figuring it out as we go?"
"That's very unlike you. You're a planner."
"Plans change when variables change."
"So I'm a variable now."
"You've been a variable since the parking lot." I move closer. "The kiss just made it official."
She sets down her coffee, reaches up to cup my face. "For the record, I don't regret it."
"Good. Neither do I."
"Even though it's complicated?"
"Especially because it's complicated." I kiss her, slow and thorough. When we break apart, she's smiling.
"We're terrible at professional boundaries."
"Absolutely terrible."
The rest of the morning passes quietly. She reviews patient files on her laptop. I run security protocols, coordinate with Rivera, and check in with my team. Normal work routine in abnormal circumstances.
Afternoon brings surgeries. I shadow her through the hospital, maintain my position outside the OR while she works. Standard protective detail that feels different now that I know how she tastes, how she fits against me in the dark.
When we get back to my place, I start prepping for dinner. Hayes, Santos, Sullivan, and Garcia are due at eighteen-hundred, which gives me an hour to make sure I have enough food.
"What can I do?" Gwen asks.
"Stay out of my way while I cook?"
"I could help."
"You burn water, remember?"
"I sautéed garlic successfully yesterday. I'm expanding my skill set."
I hand her a cutting board and vegetables. "Fine. Chop these. Try not to lose a finger."
"Your faith in me is overwhelming."
She chops with careful precision, surgeon's hands adapting to kitchen tasks. I watch while seasoning steaks, noting how she approaches it like an operation—methodical, focused, checking her work.
"You're overthinking it," I say.
"I'm being careful."
"It's vegetables, not a splenectomy."
"Both require precision."
"One requires significantly less precision than the other."
She grins. "Are you questioning my surgical technique?"
"I'm questioning your vegetable-chopping anxiety."
"It's not anxiety. It's—" She pauses. "Okay, it might be slight anxiety. You're very competent at this and I don't want to mess it up."
"Can't mess up chopping vegetables, Gwen."
"Watch me."
But she doesn't. Gets through the whole cutting board without incident, looking pleased with herself when she's done.
"See? Not dead yet."
"The bar for success is very low in your kitchen."
"The bar for success is 'everyone survives.' I'm meeting that bar."
Right on schedule, there's a knock. I check the doorbell camera and see Sullivan grinning.
"Brace yourself," I tell Gwen.
I open the door. Sullivan enters carrying beer, Hayes, Santos and Garcia right behind him with chips and salsa.
"Boss." Sullivan's grin widens when he spots Gwen in the kitchen. "And you must be the hot doctor keeping our captain busy."
Gwen's eyes widen slightly. She glances at me, then back at Sullivan. "I'm—that's not—"
"Lay off, Sully." I hand him a beer. "She's had a rough week."
"Yeah, heard someone tried to kill you." Santos settles onto the couch, observant eyes already cataloging details. "You doing okay?"
"Better now." Gwen looks slightly overwhelmed by four large Marines filling my small living room. "Your captain takes protective detail seriously."
"He takes everything seriously." Garcia grins. "Except when he doesn't."
I watch Gwen try to find her footing. She's used to commanding ORs, managing residents, handling pressure. But this is different. Four men who know me too well, evaluating her, deciding if she's worth my time.
"So," Sullivan says, leaning against the counter too close to Gwen's personal space. "Captain says you're a surgeon. What's the worst thing you've seen?"
Gwen shifts slightly, uncomfortable with the proximity. "Define worst."
"Most disgusting. Most memorable. Whatever makes good dinner conversation."
"How about we don't talk about medical disasters before dinner?" I suggest.
"Where's the fun in that?" Sullivan grins at Gwen. "Come on, Doc. You've got stories."
"I have patient confidentiality."
"HIPAA's no fun at parties."
"Good thing this isn't a party." But she's smiling slightly. "How about you? What's the worst thing you've seen?"
Sullivan's grin turns wicked. "Well, there was this one time in Fallujah—"
"We're not telling that story," I cut in.
"Why not? It's a good story."
"It's classified."
"The classified part is the best part though."
Gwen laughs, and I watch her start to relax.
Santos asks about surgical procedures with genuine interest—he's a medic, always wanting to learn more.
Garcia wants to know about the weirdest injuries she's treated.
Hayes cracks jokes about how his shoulder got dislocated.
Sullivan continues pushing boundaries until she pushes back with a comment about his obvious need for attention.
"Oh, I like her," Sullivan says. "She's got bite."
"She's also standing right here," Gwen says.
I fire up the grill on the back patio while they get comfortable. Through the window I watch Gwen deflect Sullivan's questions, talk with Hayes, laugh at something Garcia says, accept a beer from Santos who's already decided she's trustworthy.
By the time I bring steaks in, they're trading deployment stories and medical disasters like old friends.
"So what's the weirdest surgery you've done?" Sullivan asks around a mouthful of steak.
Gwen considers. "Had a Marine come in with—actually, I really can't tell you. HIPAA."
"Aw, come on."
"No. I'd lose my license."
"What if we guess and you just confirm?"
"Still a violation."
Garcia laughs. "She's got you there, Sully."
"Fine. What about the most interesting surgery you've done that you can talk about?"