She sinks onto the one intact stool, head in her hands. Not crying. Just breathing through the weight.
I crouch in front of her, hands on her knees. "Hey. Look at me."
Green eyes bright with unshed tears meet mine.
"I can't do this anymore," she whispers. "I'm so tired of being strong. Tired of handling everything alone."
"You faced down Tanner in that conference room and didn't give him an inch. You were incredible." I keep my voice steady, grounding. "You're not alone. You've got me. And I'm not going anywhere."
"Until the threat is neutralized and your assignment ends."
The assumption hits hard. "Fallon. This stopped being just an assignment the moment I pulled you from the ocean. I want to be here. You matter?—"
"We need to move," Hartwell interrupts gently. "Analysts are waiting."
Base security is organized chaos. Analysts hunched over screens that Hartwell joins to review. Thatcher examines findings over their shoulders.
After reviewing the data, Hartwell turns to us. "We've identified a pattern. Security footage shows a figure in dark clothing entering the marine biology center early this morning. Male, average height." She pulls up an image. "Facial recognition returned multiple matches. All former military,explosives training, currently working as private security contractors. All connected to a defense contractor competing for the same coastal vulnerability research contract Dr. McKay won."
"They want my research," Fallon says hollowly. "Someone hired a contractor to destroy my work."
"That's our working theory." Hartwell's mouth tightens. "And Tanner's arrival the same day suggests possible coordination."
"We need enhanced protection for Dr. McKay," Thatcher says. "If there's a professional contractor involved, standard security won't cut it."
"Agreed." Hartwell's gaze shifts to me. "Lieutenant Commander Lange, you're officially primary protection. Captain Caine as secondary. Dr. McKay, enhanced security will be installed in your apartment tonight. Lieutenant Commander Lange will move in—he'll take your couch, maintain immediate response capability."
Fallon's eyes widen. "You want him to move in?"
"I want you alive." The words come out rougher than intended, carrying weight I'm not ready to name. "Military-grade security with me on-site is your best option."
She searches my face for the lie, the angle. Finds only truth.
"Okay," she says finally. "Okay."
The meeting disperses. Thatcher coordinates with security teams. Fallon and I walk to the parking lot in silence.
"I hate that he's here," she says quietly. "Seeing Bruce made everything come back. The fear, the constant vigilance. I thought Virginia meant safety."
"He didn't find you. He used official channels." I keep my voice calm, anchoring. "And he's being monitored. Can't make a move without Hartwell knowing."
"Doesn't make him less dangerous." Her voice cracks. "You don't know what he's capable of. The ways he made me doubt my own reality."
"He won't get close enough to do that again. I'll be present for every encounter."
She looks up at me, searching. "Why are you doing this?"
Because watching her nearly die activated every protective instinct I have. Because somewhere between morning beach runs and watching her cry in my arms, she became someone I'm not willing to lose.
But now's not the time. Not when she's exhausted and facing threats from multiple directions.
"Because you deserve to be safe," I say. "And I'm good at keeping people safe."
Hours later, security installation complete, I'm settled on Fallon's couch with tactical gear nearby and weapon within reach. The apartment feels smaller with both of us here. More intimate. Fallon retreated to her bedroom with a quiet goodnight.
I settle in, laptop open, reviewing threat assessments. The apartment is quiet except for ambient sounds of Fallon moving around, getting ready for bed.
Sleep doesn't come easy. Every sound puts me on alert. The new security cameras show empty hallways, quiet parking lot. Fallon's breathing has evened out in the bedroom, steady rhythm that says she finally found sleep.
