My phone buzzes. Text from Commander Hartwell.
Footage review shows figure in dark hoodie approaching housing area at twenty-three-hundred. Face obscured, gait analysis inconclusive. No clear ID.
Another text follows immediately.
Bruce Tanner confirmed at base bar from twenty-two-hundred to oh-two-hundred. Multiple witnesses, security footage, credit card receipts. Alibi is solid.
So not Tanner. Or not just Tanner. Someone else with skills, access, and motive. Someone who knows Fallon's routine well enough to sabotage her vehicle with precision timing.
I dial Hartwell back. She answers immediately.
"It's not Tanner," I say without preamble. "Or he's working with someone local."
"Agreed. Which means we're looking at coordinated effort. Trained contractors, inside knowledge, escalating pattern." Her voice carries the weight of command decisions being made in real time. "I'm recommending enhanced security protocols. Armed escorts, restricted access to Dr. McKay's location and schedule, full background checks on everyone she's had contact with since arriving at Tidewater."
"She's agreed to enhanced security but refuses safe house relocation." I watch the forensics team finish their work, bagging evidence. "We're compromising on armed escort and maintained routine."
"That's a risk."
"It's her risk to take." The words sit bitter on my tongue but they're true. "And forcing her into hiding won't stop whoever's doing this. It'll just make them more creative."
Silence stretches across the line. Then Hartwell sighs, the sound of a commander making calls with incomplete information and too many variables.
"Alright. We do this her way. But Holden? You don't leave her side. Not for runs, not for briefings, not for anything. She wants autonomy, fine. But she gets it with a SEAL shadow."
"Understood."
"And one more thing." Hartwell's voice drops, carrying a note I can't quite identify. "The footage shows our saboteur has military bearing. Confident movement through base housing, knowledge of security patterns, trained tradecraft. We're not looking for a civilian contractor. We're looking for someone with operational background."
Someone military. Someone with access, skills, and the kind of training that makes them nearly invisible on a base full of operators.
Someone like me.
I end the call and head inside. Fallon's in the kitchen, dressed for work in dark slacks and a cream sweater that makes her auburn hair look like fire. She's making breakfast with focused efficiency, cracking eggs into a pan like the world isn't actively trying to kill her.
"Coffee's fresh," she says without looking up. "And I made enough for both of us."
Domestic. Normal. Like we're a couple navigating morning routines instead of a protection detail managing escalating threats.
"Thanks." I pour coffee, add cream the way I've learned she prefers, slide the mug across the counter to her.
She takes it with a small smile, fingers brushing mine in the exchange. The contact lasts a second longer than necessary, deliberate acknowledgment of the awareness humming between us.
"We okay?" she asks quietly.
"Yeah. We're okay."
Liar. We're not okay. We're surrounded by people trying to kill her, I'm falling in love with someone I'm supposed to protect tactically, and the investigation just revealed our saboteur has operational training which means the threat could be coming from anywhere.
But Fallon's standing in the kitchen making breakfast with green eyes that dare the world to break her, and I'll be damned if I let anyone take that away. Even if it means standing between her and every threat. Even if it means respecting her autonomy when every instinct screams to lock her down. Even if it means admitting that somewhere between protection detail and partnership, I stopped being able to imagine a future that doesn't include her in it.
She turns back to the stove, flipping eggs with practiced ease. Sunlight streams through the window, catching in her hair and painting the small kitchen in gold.
"I won't be controlled," she says without looking at me. "Not by Bruce. Not by whoever's doing this. And not by you."
The words land hard. Because she's right. And because protecting her means respecting that boundary—even when every instinct says to lock her down and shield her from everything.
Fallon plates the eggs, slides mine across the counter, meets my eyes with that fierce independence burning bright. Daring me to try dominating her. Daring me to see her as anything less than capable.
