1
FALLON
The ocean doesn't lie. People do.
Cold seawater soaks through my leggings as I crouch beside a tide pool, notebook balanced on my knee. Dawn hasn't quite broken over Joint Expeditionary Base Tidewater, and the Virginia coast is caught in that murky pre-sunrise gray where the world feels like it's holding its breath. Perfect conditions for surveying the rocky shelf where the Chesapeake Bay kisses the Atlantic. Perfect conditions for being alone with my work and nothing else.
My headlamp cuts through the dimness, illuminating a cluster of barnacles clinging to the granite outcropping. I sketch their distribution pattern quickly, noting the way they've colonized the rock face in the six weeks since the last nor'easter pushed through. Coastal erosion doesn't care about military training schedules, and neither do the organisms that make their homes in these tidal zones. Someone has to document how the base's infrastructure is slowly losing ground to the sea, one storm surge at a time.
That someone is me. Dr. Fallon McKay, marine biologist and professional third wheel to the Atlantic Ocean's relationship with the Virginia shoreline.
A splash draws my attention to the deeper pool on my left, where a hermit crab scuttles across the bottom. I watch it navigate between strands of kelp, its stolen shell bobbing with each sideways step. Hermit crabs understand the essentials. Find what you need, take it, keep moving. Simple. Honest.
Movement catches my peripheral vision, and my head snaps up before I can stop the reaction.
A runner moves along the beach about fifty yards down the shoreline, his form barely visible in the weak light. Morning PT is standard on base, but most service members stick to the designated running paths inland. This one prefers the beach, apparently. I've seen him before during these early surveys, always at the same time, always maintaining the same steady pace that eats up distance without looking like effort.
I duck my head back to my notebook, annoyed at the distraction. Old habits surface too easily. The constant checking, the awareness of who's around and why. Three thousand miles should be enough distance, but apparently my nervous system hasn't gotten the memo.
Focus, Fallon. The runner is just a runner. Base personnel doing his job, same as you.
Still, I track him from the corner of my eye as I record salinity measurements. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of fluid economy that suggests serious training. Military for sure, probably special operations based on the predawn schedule and the way he runs like the beach might bite back. SEALs train here. So do Marine Raiders. The base houses some of the military's most elite units, which means I'm surrounded by men who are very good at things that have nothing to do with marine biology.
The runner's pace doesn't falter as he approaches my section of beach. If he notices me crouched among the rocks with my headlamp and equipment, he gives no indication. Just maintainsthat ground-eating stride that carries him past my position and down toward the pier.
I watch him go longer than necessary. The dawn light is strengthening now, catching on what looks like sun-streaked brown hair and tanned skin. Athletic doesn't begin to cover it. The man moves like water, all controlled power and perfect balance on the uneven sand.
My notebook is still open in my hands, pen hovering over a half-finished sentence about substrate composition. Right. Work. The thing I'm actually here to do.
I force my attention back to the tide pool, but my jaw is tight with irritation. Three months at Tidewater, and I've managed to avoid unnecessary interactions with base personnel beyond what my research requires. Morning surveys in the predawn hours help with that. Most people prefer their coffee and breakfast to scrambling over rocks in the dark. But apparently, I share my schedule with at least one dedicated runner who has the inconsiderate habit of being extremely distracting.
Not that it matters. I'm not here to notice attractive service members. I'm here because my research on coastal erosion and storm surge impact is the first comprehensive study of its kind for an active military installation, and because Virginia puts an entire continent between me and Seattle.
The hermit crab emerges from the kelp forest, and I refocus on sketching its path. This is what I understand. Organisms adapting to environmental pressure. Ecosystems shifting in response to change. Tidal patterns that follow the moon's pull with absolute reliability. The ocean doesn't play games. It doesn't track your phone or show up at your apartment at two in the morning. It doesn't tell you it's for your own good while backing you into corners.
It just is. Honest, powerful, and utterly indifferent to human drama.
Footsteps approach from behind, barely audible over the waves, and every muscle in my body locks up.
I spin, hand moving instinctively toward my belt before I remember the dive knife is back in my field kit. The runner has stopped about ten feet away with his hands visible and relaxed at his sides. Smart approach. Non-threatening body language for a lone woman on an isolated beach.
"Didn't mean to startle you." His voice is low and calm, carrying that soft Virginia Tidewater accent that rounds the edges of consonants. "Saw your light and wanted to make sure you were okay out here."
I straighten slowly, leaving space between us. Up close, he's even more distracting than he was at a distance. Probably six-two, with a swimmer's build all broad shoulders and lean muscle. Storm-gray eyes that miss absolutely nothing. Stubble covers a strong jaw, and his hair is damp with sweat despite the cool morning air.
"I'm fine." The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don't soften them. "Working."
He nods, still maintaining that careful distance. "Marine biology research, right? For the erosion study."
Of course he knows. Base personnel have been briefed on my presence and purpose. Can't have a civilian poking around coastal areas without proper clearance and an explanation that satisfies the security concerns.
"Right," I say. "Which means I need to finish this survey before the tide comes in."
It's a clear dismissal. Most people would take the hint and leave. Instead, he glances at the tide pools behind me, then back at my face. "You're out here most mornings. Same time, same section of beach."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "You've been watching me?"
"Hard to miss someone in a fluorescent safety vest with a headlamp." His tone stays even, almost amused, but there's something watchful in those gray eyes. "I run this route every morning. You survey this area just as often. We're on the same schedule."
