Epilogue
THATCHER
Two Weeks Later
Sunlight wakes me before the alarm. Gwen's still asleep, curled into my side, one leg thrown over mine.
Her toothbrush sits in the holder next to mine in the bathroom.
Her scrubs hang in my closet alongside my uniforms. Her coffee mug—the dark blue one from her med school graduation—sits in our cabinet.
Two weeks since she officially moved in. What started as protective detail became something real. She's here because she chose this, chose me. And I can't imagine waking up without her anymore.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. It's a text from Rivera.
Final case update. All suspects formally charged. Some equipment recovered. Security protocols implemented. Case officially closed. Good work.
I set the phone down carefully, not wanting to wake her. The investigation that brought us together is done. Garrison's cooperating, Briggs is stonewalling but they have enough evidence anyway. Nox traced the overseas hacker, Griff cleared the hospital equipment storage. Everything tied up clean.
Her apartment lease ends next week. Everything worth keeping is already here.
She stirs, rolls toward me, eyes still closed. "What time is it?"
"Early. You have rounds at eight."
"Then why are you awake at six?"
"Rivera sent the final case update. It's officially closed."
That gets her eyes open. "Everything?"
"Everything. Suspects charged, evidence processed, security upgraded. We're done."
"Good." She stretches, my t-shirt riding up. "So my apartment is officially safe now."
"Yeah."
"And I officially don't need protective detail anymore."
"No."
"Good thing I'm staying anyway." She props herself up on one elbow, watching me. "My lease is up next week. Need to do the final walkthrough."
"Want me to come with you?"
"Please. I'll probably need help carrying the last few boxes."
"I own more than five shirts."
"You own barely enough for a week. I counted." She's grinning though, eyes bright with the teasing that always gets under my skin. "My stuff has already taken over your closet. You're down to like three hangers."
"Looking forward to it."
She kisses me, morning breath and messy hair and absolutely perfect. "Go make coffee. I need to shower."
"Need help?"
"You need to be at formation in an hour. I need to actually get clean, not distracted." But she's pulling me toward the bathroom anyway. "Give me a few minutes. Then coffee."
We make it out shortly after. She stays to get dressed for rounds while I head to the kitchen to start coffee. Her medical journals sit stacked on my coffee table. Her shoes sit by the door. Small pieces of her life integrated into mine over the past weeks, and now we're making it permanent.
The coffee maker beeps. I pour two mugs—hers in the navy blue one, mine in the standard black. It's a routine I don't want to give up.
My phone buzzes again. It's a group text.
Sullivan: Morning formation. Don't be late.
Hayes: Captain's never late.
Santos: Captain, you coming solo or is the doc riding in with you?
I respond:
Solo. She has rounds.
Sullivan: Bet Garcia twenty bucks the captain's late because he's too busy with domestic bliss.
Garcia: Bet accepted. He's never late.
Sullivan: First time for everything. Man's in love. Makes people stupid.
I show Gwen the messages when she emerges in scrubs, hair pulled back, looking every bit the trauma surgeon who can save lives with steady hands and sharp focus.
"Your team is obsessed with our relationship," she says.
"My team needs better hobbies."
"They have a hobby. We're the hobby." She takes her coffee, leans against the counter. "Are you actually going to be late?"
"Never."
"Good. I'd hate to cost Garcia twenty bucks." She checks her watch. "I need to go. Rounds start in thirty and I want to review the post-op notes before morning briefing."
I walk her to the door, steal one more kiss before she leaves. "I'll pick you up at seven. We'll finish clearing out your apartment."
"Sounds good."
"You sure about this? Giving up your own place?"
"I'm sure." She gives me a soft smile, the one that's just for me. "I haven't slept there in two weeks anyway. This is home now."
Formation runs exactly on time. Sullivan loses his bet with Garcia and complains loudly about it. Hayes looks relaxed, clearly enjoying watching Sullivan pay up. We run through the training schedule, upcoming exercises, standard readiness briefings.
After dismissal, Hayes falls into step beside me. "Heard the doc's making it official."
"News travels fast."
"Sullivan has a big mouth." He grins. "But seriously, good for you, Captain. About time you stopped living like you're deployed."
"I don't live like I'm deployed."
"You own seven shirts and eat off paper plates. That's deployed living." He pauses. "The doc's good for you. We've all seen it. You're less checked-out. Actually living again instead of just going through the motions."
"Noted."
"Good. Because the team likes her. If you mess this up, we're keeping her and trading you to another unit."
I leave Hayes laughing and head to the hospital. Gwen's just heading into rounds, so I text that I'll pick her up at seven. She responds with a thumbs up and a reminder to bring the truck for the last boxes.
Later I find her in the physician’s lounge with Beth, both reviewing charts and discussing some surgical technique I don't understand. Medical terminology that might as well be another language.
I wait in the doorway until Beth notices me.
"Captain Caine. Here to help finish the big move?"
"Final walkthrough. Getting the last few things."
"Good luck. She's very particular about leaving places clean." Beth gives Gwen a knowing look. "Try not to let her spend three hours scrubbing baseboards."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Gwen stands, gathering her things. "I do not spend three hours scrubbing baseboards."
"You absolutely do." But Beth is grinning. "Have fun. Try not to get nostalgic about that terrible apartment."
We make it to Gwen's apartment by seven-thirty. Most of it's already empty—furniture moved, kitchen packed, closets cleared. Just a few boxes of miscellaneous items left, cleaning supplies, and the things she couldn't decide whether to keep or donate.
"Where did all this come from?" I ask, lifting a box of cooking supplies.
"Normal people own things, Thatcher."
We load my truck and make two trips. By the time everything's inside, my living room looks like organized chaos.
As I'm hauling the last box from my truck—heavy as hell, feels like she packed bricks—Gwen appears in the doorway with coffee.
"Need help?"
"I've got it." I carry it through, set it down with the others.
She leans against the doorframe with that look on her face that means she's about to ask something serious.
"So, babe, what did happen in Fallujah?"
Later, when we're in bed and she's half-asleep against my shoulder, my phone buzzes with a base-wide notification.
I check it carefully, not wanting to wake her.
Official Personnel Update: Staff Sergeant Griff Morrison assigned permanent EOD position effective immediately. Lennox Bradshaw contract extended for ongoing cyber security consultation.
Both exactly what base needs. Griff's skillset is too valuable to rotate out. Nox's work implementing security protocols proved her worth.
Because there will be future operations. Always are on a military base.