"Dr. McKay, these are representatives from the base operations committee." Bradford gestures to the civilians. "This is Daniel Rexford from coastal infrastructure consulting, and DeeDee Stark from environmental impact assessment. They'll be observing your presentation."
Rexford stands to shake my hand. Average height, fit build, probably in his forties with graying temples and sharp eyes that catalog everything. His handshake is firm, professional, but the way his gaze lingers on my face puts me on edge. Not threatening, just intensely focused. Like he's measuring me for something.
"Dr. McKay. I've been following your work with great interest." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Your methodology is quite innovative."
"Thank you." I keep my response neutral, taking my seat at the front of the room. Holden settles into a chair along the wall, close enough to intervene but far enough to not crowd. His presence anchors me, lets me focus on the presentation instead of the weight of all these eyes.
The briefing goes smoothly at first. I walk through my findings with PowerPoint slides showing erosion patterns, sediment analysis, projected timelines. The committee asksstandard questions about methodology and data collection. Hartwell takes notes, her expression professional but approving.
Then Rexford leans forward, fingers steepled in front of him. "Dr. McKay, your data on the eastern training beach is particularly fascinating. Can you elaborate on the subsurface composition analysis?"
The question feels wrong. Too specific. Too focused on information that has no bearing on general erosion patterns but everything to do with structural vulnerabilities.
"The subsurface composition varies depending on location," I answer carefully. "But that level of detail is still being analyzed."
"Of course." His smile widens slightly. "And your findings on how storm surge affects the northwestern access point? That data could be quite valuable for emergency preparedness planning."
Valuable for knowing exactly where the base's physical defenses are weakest during severe weather. Holden shifts in my peripheral vision, tension radiating from his stillness. He caught it too.
I redirect to broader patterns, keeping my responses general without appearing evasive. But Rexford keeps circling back, probing for specific data points that all happen to align with tactical vulnerabilities. Not obvious enough to be blatant. Just persistent enough to be concerning.
When the presentation ends, Bradford thanks me for my work. The committee disperses, but Rexford lingers, approaching with that same measuring look.
"Excellent work, Dr. McKay. I'd love to discuss your findings in more detail. Perhaps over coffee sometime this week?" His card appears in his hand, extended toward me. "I'm working on a related project that could benefit from your expertise."
Holden materializes beside me before I can respond, physical barrier and implicit warning. "Dr. McKay's schedule is quite full. Any follow-up inquiries should go through Commander Hartwell."
Rexford's gaze flicks to Holden, assessing. Then back to me with that same sharp interest. "Of course. I understand security protocols. But the offer stands." He nods to Bradford. "Commander. Thank you for including me."
Once he's gone, Hartwell approaches with Bradford. "Thoughts?"
"Too interested in specific vulnerabilities," Holden says quietly. "Questions were targeted."
"Agreed." Hartwell's mouth tightens. "I'll run deeper background on him. See what connections turn up."
Bradford nods, expression grim. "We're moving you to secure base housing. There's a small house in officer's row that's vacant. Gated access, controlled entry points." He looks at Holden. "Lieutenant Commander, you'll move in as primary protection. We can station officers outside if Dr. McKay prefers additional security."
"That won't be necessary," I say before Holden can respond. The thought of officers watching the house, monitoring our movements, feels suffocating. "If I have a Navy SEAL living there, I think that's sufficient."
Bradford's mouth tightens but he nods. "Your call. But Holden? Don't let her out of your sight."
The reality of what just happened settles over me during the drive. Moving to base housing. Holden living with me, not just sleeping on my couch but actually sharing a house. The temporary nature of my apartment replaced with an even more temporary arrangement that somehow feels more permanent.
"We need to stop at your place first," Holden says, navigating through the rain. "Get clothes, essentials. Whatever you need for an extended stay."
"You have everything you need?" I ask, realizing he's been operating out of a go-bag since this started.
"Always packed and ready. Comes with the job." His hands stay relaxed on the wheel despite the tension radiating through the truck cab. "We'll get you settled, then I'll do a full security sweep of the house."
The stop at my apartment is quick and efficient. I pack clothing, toiletries, my laptop and research files I'll need for work. Holden stands watch by the window, alert to every sound in the hallway. Within twenty minutes, my life is condensed into two suitcases and a messenger bag.
The base housing complex sits behind additional security gates, rows of small houses built for visiting officers and temporary assignments. Ours sits at the end of a quiet street, a two-bedroom cottage with a small porch and a view of the water in the distance.
Holden does a complete sweep before letting me inside. Checks windows, door locks, sight lines from the street. His movements are methodical, professional, the consummate operator ensuring his principal's safety.
The interior is basic but comfortable. Living room with a couch and chairs, small kitchen with a breakfast bar, two bedrooms separated by a shared bathroom. Military-issue furniture and neutral walls, the kind of anonymous space that could belong to anyone.
"You take the main bedroom," Holden says, already moving his gear toward the smaller room. "Better windows, easier to defend."
