Chapter 13
GWEN
Iwake to pale morning light filtering through the blinds and the steady rhythm of Thatcher's breathing beside me. His arm is still around my waist, one hand splayed across my stomach, holding me close even in sleep. We're tangled together in his bed like we've been doing this for years.
My body aches in all the best ways. It's exhaustion from yesterday's operation mixed with the bone-deep satisfaction of falling asleep wrapped around him after he told me he loved me.
I shift slightly, testing whether he's awake. His hand flexes against my skin, pulling me closer.
"Morning," he murmurs against my shoulder, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I turn in his arms to face him. "We should probably get up. Follow-up meeting with Rivera at ten."
"We have time." His hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair. "No rush. No danger. Just us."
Just us. The words settle the knot that's been wound tight since that first attack in the parking lot. All the adrenaline, the fear, the constant vigilance—gone, replaced by this quiet morning and the way he's looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters.
"I love you," I say. We're here. We're alive. I want him to know.
His mouth curves into a smile. "I love you too." He kisses me, slow and thorough, taking his time now that there's no urgency driving us.
He rolls us so I'm beneath him, his weight settling over me in a way that makes my pulse kick up. His hands map my body with the confidence of familiarity now, knowing exactly where to touch to make me arch and gasp. When his mouth closes over my breast, I'm already breathless.
"Thatcher—"
"Shh. Let me." His voice carries that dominant edge I crave. "Just feel."
His mouth moves lower, kissing across my ribs, my stomach, the sensitive skin of my hip. When he settles between my thighs, his shoulders spreading me wide, I thread my fingers into his hair and surrender completely.
He knows my body now. Knows exactly which spots make me gasp versus which make me moan. His tongue flattens against me, one long, slow stroke that pulls a broken sound from my throat. He hums approval against my flesh and the vibration makes my hips buck.
"Thatcher—"
He doesn't answer, just grips my thighs harder and goes to work. Alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on my clit, building pleasure in waves that crest higher each time. When he adds fingers, curling them to hit that perfect spot inside while his mouth stays relentless, I'm done.
The orgasm crashes through me fast and hard. My back arches off the bed, thighs trembling against his shoulders, his name tearing from my lips. He doesn't let up, working me through every pulse until I'm gasping and oversensitive and pushing at his head.
Only then does he pull back, pressing one last kiss to my inner thigh before sliding up to kiss me. I taste myself on his tongue and it makes me want him all over again.
"I love you," I manage between gasps.
"I love you too." He pushes inside me in one smooth stroke, and we both groan at the familiar perfection of it.
Morning light and lazy pleasure, taking our time because we can. When I come again, he follows right after, my name rough against my shoulder.
After, we lie tangled together, catching our breath. Sunlight streams through the window, and he's watching me with an intensity that makes me shiver.
"We really do need to get up," I say eventually. "Rivera will have our heads if we're late."
"Worth it." But he rolls out of bed, offering me his hand. "Shower?"
"Only if you behave."
"I make no promises."
We make it to NCIS with fifteen minutes to spare, both freshly showered and trying not to look like we spent the morning in bed together. Rivera takes one look at us and smiles but says nothing, just gestures us into the conference room where her team has assembled evidence boards and case files.
"Morning, Dr. Abernathy. Captain Caine." Rivera nods to the boards.
"I wanted to brief you on where we stand before the formal close-out.
" She pulls up a report on the screen. "Garrison's lawyer reached out earlier.
She's willing to cooperate in exchange for a reduced sentence.
Naming accomplices, providing documentation, the works. "
"And Briggs?" I ask.
"Lawyered up immediately. Not talking." Rivera's expression hardens. "But between Garrison's cooperation, the evidence we seized, and Dr. Abernathy's documentation, we have enough to prosecute."
Nox enters the room, tablet in hand, looking satisfied. "Morning. I finished tracing the cyber component overnight."
"And?" Rivera prompts.
"The third party was good, I'll give them that. But they made mistakes." Nox pulls up code on the screen. "I tracked the database manipulation back to its source. A freelance hacker operating overseas. No military connection, just hired talent. I've already flagged them for FBI Cyber Division."
"So Garrison hired outside help for the technical work," Thatcher says.
"Exactly. She had the logistics access, Briggs provided muscle and intimidation, and the hacker covered their digital tracks." Nox closes her laptop. "A classic division of labor. Smart, but not smart enough."
Griff enters carrying a tablet. "Finished the equipment reconciliation. Every stolen item's been accounted for in the seizure or traced to buyers through the shipping records."
"All medical equipment," Rivera adds. "But the methodology they used—insider access combined with cyber manipulation and enforcement—could have been adapted for far more dangerous targets."
"Weapons. Explosives. Classified materials." Griff's expression is grim. "They proved the concept worked. That's what concerns Command."
"But they stuck with medical equipment because it was lower-risk, easier to move, and harder to trace," I say. "Greed, not ideology."
"Which is why Garrison's willing to cooperate," Rivera says. "She's not a true believer. She's just someone who saw an opportunity and took it."
The word "closed" should feel like relief, but instead I'm left with this strange hollow sensation. The threat is gone, but part of me mourns the end of the legitimate reason Thatcher has to be in my life every day.
Rivera's watching us with that knowing look. "Excellent work, both of you. Dr. Abernathy, your documentation was crucial to building the case. Captain Caine, your tactical support was invaluable." She pauses. "Though I suspect you'll both find reasons to continue working together."
Thatcher's hand finds mine under the table. A brief squeeze that says more than words could.
By the time we finish the debrief and sign off on final reports, it's late afternoon. Thatcher drives us back to his house, and I'm surprised to find Sullivan's truck already parked in the driveway along with two other vehicles I recognize from the base motor pool.
"What's this?" I ask.
"The team wanted to celebrate." He kills the engine, turns to face me. "They've been invested since day one. Hope that's okay."
It's more than okay. After everything, a celebration sounds perfect.
Inside, Sullivan has already made himself at home in the kitchen, beer in hand, mid-argument with Garcia about football statistics. Santos is setting up takeout containers on the counter, and Hayes has queued music through the house speakers at a reasonable volume.
"There she is!" Sullivan raises his beer. "The woman who brought down a criminal enterprise with spreadsheets and stubbornness."
"That's not exactly—"
"Close enough." He hands me a beer. "To Dr. Abernathy, who saved the hospital's equipment budget and gave our captain something to smile about."
"I smile," Thatcher protests.
"Since when?" Garcia asks.
"I've seen it happen," Sullivan adds. "Twice. Both times involved the doc."
They toast anyway, and I find myself pulled into the easy camaraderie of men who've served together, bled together, trust each other implicitly.
Sullivan makes increasingly inappropriate toasts that make me laugh despite myself, while Garcia shares stories about training mishaps that have Thatcher shaking his head.
"Remember that op in Djibouti?" Sullivan says. "Captain here insisted we could make the insertion window if we ran the entire beach approach."
"We made it," Thatcher counters.
"Barely. Santos puked twice."
Santos, quiet as always, just shrugs. "Heat exhaustion. Happens."
Hayes turns to me. "The captain made us run it again the next day. In full gear. To prove a point."
"The point being that you could do it without complaining," Thatcher says.
"We complained the entire time," Garcia adds. "You just ignored us."
I watch the dynamic unfold. This is Thatcher's family. The men who have his back no matter what.
Santos, who's been quiet through most of the evening, approaches me while the others are arguing about the Djibouti incident. His expression is serious, thoughtful in a way that makes me pay attention.
"He's different now," Santos says quietly. "Better. Thank you."
The simple statement catches me off guard. "I didn't do anything."
"You did." He glances across the room at Thatcher. "We've been worried about him. After he lost Suzy, he went through the motions but wasn't really living. Then you showed up." Santos meets my eyes. "So thank you."
I don't know what to say to that. The weight of responsibility, the knowledge that I've become that important to someone, should feel overwhelming. Instead it just feels right.
By the time the team leaves, it's past nine. Sullivan makes one final inappropriate comment about what we'll be doing now that we're alone, and Garcia physically drags him out the door before I can throw something at him.
Thatcher closes the door behind them, and suddenly the house feels very quiet.
"Sorry about Sullivan," he says. "He has no filter."
"I noticed." I start gathering empty beer bottles, carrying them to the kitchen. "I like them. Your team."
"They like you too." He follows me, collecting containers and napkins.