Chapter 6 #2
Gwen launches into a story about a tumor wrapped around an aorta, eleven-hour surgery, bypass required.
The way she describes it makes even complex medical procedures sound fascinating.
Santos asks technical questions. Garcia and Hayes want to know about surgical team dynamics.
Sullivan just wants to know if anyone passed out.
"The resident almost did," Gwen admits. "Hour nine, he started swaying. Had to swap him out."
"Weak," Sullivan declares.
"He'd been on his feet for twelve hours before we started. That's not weak, that's human physiology."
"Still weak."
"You want to stand in an OR for eleven hours and see how you do?"
"I've stood in worse places for longer."
"Doing what?"
"Classified."
She throws a napkin at him. "You can't classify everything."
"Watch me."
I lean back, watching her hold her own with my guys. They're testing her—seeing if she can handle the humor, the casual intensity, the way we interact. And she's passing without even realizing it.
Santos catches my eye across the table. Raises an eyebrow. I know what he's thinking—this is different. This matters.
I give him a look that says drop it. He grins and goes back to his food.
After dinner, we migrate to the living room. Hayes claims the best chair using his injured shoulder as an excuse. Santos, Garcia and Sullivan take the couch with Sullivan grouching about Hayes taking advantage. Gwen settles next to me in the remaining space, close enough that our shoulders touch.
"So," Garcia says with a grin that means trouble. "How long have you two been—"
"Careful," I warn.
"—working together?" he finishes innocently. "I was going to say working together."
"No, you weren't."
"Maybe not."
Gwen looks between us, trying to follow the subtext. "We've been working together for about a week. Since the parking lot attack."
"Right. Working together." Sullivan's grin is wicked. "Very professional."
"It is professional," I say.
"Sure it is. That why she's wearing your shirt?"
Gwen looks down at the t-shirt she borrowed this morning and is wearing again. Color floods her face. "I forgot to grab clothes after my shower."
"Uh-huh."
"It was the closest thing."
"Very convenient."
"Sullivan." My voice carries warning.
"What? I'm just making observations."
"Observe quieter."
Santos is trying not to laugh. Hayes and Garcia aren’t even trying. Gwen looks like she wants to disappear into the couch.
"Okay, new topic," she says firmly. "Tell me about the captain. What's he like on deployment?"
"Oh, that's easy," Sullivan says. "Bossy. Controlling. Has opinions about everything."
"So exactly like he is here."
"Pretty much. Except on deployment he can actually order us around."
"And here?"
"Here we just humor him."
I flip him off. He grins wider.
"He's a good team leader though," Santos says quietly. "Best I've worked with. Keeps us alive."
"By being bossy and controlling?" Gwen asks.
"By being tactical and prepared." Santos shrugs. "Sometimes that looks bossy."
"It is bossy," Garcia says. "But it works."
"See?" Gwen turns to me. "Even your team thinks you're bossy."
"They're not wrong."
"First time he's ever admitted that," Sullivan says. "This is historic. Someone write this down."
They trade more stories—deployment disasters, training mishaps, things that are funny now but weren't at the time. Gwen asks questions, laughs in the right places, gives as good as she gets when Sullivan pushes.
I watch her fit into this space with my guys like she's always been here. Natural, easy, no pretense.
"Okay, serious question," Garcia says eventually. "That eleven-hour surgery. How do you stay focused that long?"
"Practice. Training. Good team." Gwen leans forward. "It's like ops, right? You rely on your team, trust everyone knows their job, stay present in the moment."
"Exactly like ops." Garcia nods. "Except we're trying to keep people alive in different ways."
"Same goal though. Get everyone home safe."
"Can't always do that," Santos says quietly.
"No," Gwen agrees. "But you try anyway."
The room goes quiet for a moment. These men have seen people die. So has Gwen. Different contexts, same weight.
"Well this got depressing," Sullivan announces. "Who wants to hear about the time the captain accidentally—"
"No," I cut in.
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"Yes, I do. And the answer is no."
"It's a funny story."
"It's classified."
"Everything fun is classified."
Eventually they leave. Santos gives me a knowing look on his way out. Garcia claps my shoulder with a grin. Hayes just smiles. Sullivan winks at Gwen and tells her she's too good for me.
When the door closes, it's just us again.
"So," Gwen says. "Did I pass the test?"
"What test?"
"The one where your team evaluates whether I'm worth your time and energy." She crosses her arms. "Don't pretend that wasn't happening."
She's right. No point denying it. "You did fine."
"Fine? That's it?"
"You held your own with Sullivan, impressed Hayes and Garcia, and Santos actually smiled. That's more than fine."
"Santos smiled?"
"Twice. That's basically a standing ovation from him."
She grins. "So I'm acceptable?"
"You're more than acceptable."
"Then why do you look worried?"
Because watching her with my team made this real. Made it clear that this isn't just protective detail anymore. Made it obvious that I'm in deeper than I intended to be.
"Not worried. Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how well you fit." I move closer. "About how my team read the situation in about thirty seconds."
"What situation?"
"That this stopped being professional somewhere between the breakfast argument and now."
She tilts her head. "Does that bother you?"
"Should it?"
"You tell me. You're the one who kept pulling away because of professional boundaries."
"Yeah, well. Those are pretty thoroughly destroyed now."
"Good." She rises on her toes, kisses me softly. "Professional boundaries are overrated anyway."
We clean up together. She washes, I dry. Domestic routine that's becoming familiar.
"Your guys are good," she says after a while. "I can see why you trust them."
"They liked you too."
"How can you tell? Sullivan spent half the night making inappropriate comments and Garcia kept asking about surgical disasters."
"That's how they show affection. If they didn't like you, they'd have been polite."
"That's concerning."
"That's Marines."
She hands me a plate. "They care about you. I could see it. The way they watch you, check in without making it obvious."
"We've been through a lot together. That builds bonds."
"It's more than that though." She turns to face me. "They're worried about you. About you being alone."
"I'm not alone. I've got them."
"You know what I mean." She reaches up, touches my face. "When you lost Suzy, you shut everyone out. Built walls. Your team sees that."
"You've known me a week. How do you know all this?"
"Because I did the same thing after the malpractice suit." Her thumb traces my jaw. "Built walls, kept people out, told myself it was safer that way."
"Is it? Safer?"
"Safer, yeah. But also lonely."
I turn my head, kiss her palm. "Yeah."
We finish the dishes in comfortable silence. The evening stretches toward night, familiar now. Gwen settles on the couch with her book. I review files at the table.
But instead of maintaining distance like we did before, she glances up occasionally. Makes comments. Asks questions. And I respond, and we exist in the same space without walls between us.
"I should probably get some sleep," she says eventually. "Early surgery tomorrow."
"I'll be there soon."
She heads down the hall. I finish my work, run final security checks, then follow.
She's already in bed when I enter, blankets pulled up, hair spread across the pillow. She watches me move through my routine—bathroom, teeth, change into sleep clothes.
When I slide into bed beside her, she immediately curls into my side.
"This okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. This is good."
My hand traces patterns on her shoulder, gentle and absent-minded. We lie there in the quiet dark, and I think about Santos's knowing look, Sullivan's inappropriate comments, Garcia's grin.
They saw what I've been trying not to acknowledge.
This isn't protective detail anymore.
This is something else entirely.
"Thatcher?" Gwen's voice is quiet.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For tonight. For letting me meet your guys."
"You fit."
"I was terrified."
"You hid it well."
"Years of practice." She shifts to look at me. "They're important to you. I wanted to make a good impression."
"You did."
"Even with Sullivan making sex jokes all night?"
"Especially with Sullivan making sex jokes. You handled him perfectly."
She grins. "He's not subtle."
"He's never been accused of subtlety."
She settles back against my chest. "I like them. Your team."
"Good. They liked you too."
We drift toward sleep, tangled together in the dark. But my mind keeps circling back to the same thought.
Somewhere between the parking lot and now, between breakfast arguments and midnight kisses, between professional distance and sharing a bed—I fell for her.
And unlike every other threat I've faced, I have no tactical response for this one.
Just the knowledge that keeping Gwen Abernathy safe isn't just about the investigation anymore.
It's personal.
And that terrifies me more than any firefight ever did.