Someone hands me a bag with dry clothes retrieved from my apartment. Jeans, a soft t-shirt, clean underwear. I change in thebathroom, wincing at every movement. Everything hurts. But the pain is manageable.
When I emerge, Lange has found a shirt somewhere. Navy issue, tight across his shoulders in a way that should be illegal.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No," I say honestly. "But let's go anyway."
The walk to his truck is short. Lange opens the passenger door, waits until I'm settled before closing it. Small gestures. Respectful. Nothing like Bruce, who used to grab my arm, steer me where he wanted, invade my space without asking.
Lange slides behind the wheel and starts the engine.
"Your apartment or somewhere else?" he asks.
"My apartment." I buckle the seatbelt carefully, avoiding pressure on my ribs. "I need to see what they did."
He nods and pulls out of the parking area. We drive in silence for a few minutes, the base passing by outside the windows.
"You don't have to babysit me," I say finally. "I'm sure you have better things to do."
"Nothing more important than making sure you stay alive." He glances at me, then back at the road. "Besides, I volunteered. Means I want to be here."
"Why?"
The question hangs between us. Why would a SEAL team leader volunteer to protect a prickly marine biologist he barely knows?
Lange is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Because I've been watching you for three months, and someone just tried to kill you. I'd like to make sure they don't succeed."
Simple. Direct. No games, no manipulation. Honest intent.
That's what makes him different.
We pull up outside my apartment building. Lange parks and is out of the truck before I can reach for the handle, offering ahand to help me down. I take it, hating how much I need the support.
My apartment is on the first floor. The walk from the truck feels longer than it should. By the time we reach my door, I'm breathing hard and my ribs are screaming.
The door is already open. Crime scene tape across the frame.
I step inside and stop.
My grandmother's quilt—slashed, stuffing pulled out and scattered. The framed photo of my parents on their research vessel—shattered on the floor, glass everywhere. Drawers dumped, books torn apart, couch cushions cut open. Even the mattress in my bedroom is slashed, springs exposed.
They weren't just looking for something. They wanted to violate every corner of my life.
My legs go weak. Lange catches my elbow, steadying me.
"Hey." His voice is gentle. "Let me help you clean this up."
"This is my home." The words sound hollow even to me.
"I know." He's still holding my elbow, warm and steady. "And whoever did this might come back. So let me help now, and then we figure out where you're staying tonight."
Part of me wants to send him away. The same part that changed my name and fled across the country rather than ask for help.
But my boat is at the bottom of the ocean. My apartment is destroyed. And I'm too tired to keep fighting alone.
I don't need a hero. I need answers.
But I can accept help while I find them. As long as Lange understands this is temporary. Protection, not possession. Partnership, not control.
