"Eat," she says. "We've got work to do."
And somehow, watching her refuse to be afraid, I realize the hardest part of loving her won't be keeping her alive.
It'll be letting her live on her own terms.
9
FALLON
Months of work. Gone.
The laptop screen glows in the dim light of the kitchen, casting blue shadows across corrupted data files that represent everything I've built since arriving at Tidewater. Rain drums against the windows in a steady rhythm that should be soothing but only amplifies the tension coiled tight in my shoulders. I've been staring at the same error message for the past hour, trying different recovery protocols, watching each one fail.
Holden sits at the table behind me, field-stripping his sidearm with methodical precision. The familiar sounds of metal on metal, the quiet click of components being inspected and reassembled, create a domestic backdrop that feels surreal given the circumstances.
The day passed in a blur of meetings and presentations, armed escort shadowing my every move through labs and conference rooms. Now evening has settled over base housing, the argument from this morning still hanging between us unresolved. I refused the safe house. He compromised. We went to work pretending the tension wasn't there.
And now we're here. In base housing that doesn't belong to either of us. Him cleaning weapons. Me salvaging what's left of research someone deliberately destroyed.
The frustration builds with each failed recovery attempt, pressure mounting behind my sternum. Months of coastal surveys. Tide pool specimens collected at dawn. Sediment samples cataloged with painstaking detail. All of it corrupted or missing entirely from the backup drives that should have been redundant, should have been safe.
"Anything?" Holden's voice cuts through the quiet without breaking his rhythm.
"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. I close my eyes, force myself to breathe. "Someone didn't just vandalize my lab. They knew exactly which files to corrupt, which backups to compromise. This wasn't random destruction. This was targeted data elimination."
The sounds behind me stop. Holden sets down a component with a soft click. "How much did you lose?"
"Most of it." My throat tightens around the admission. "The erosion mapping, the vulnerability assessments, the tidal pattern analysis. All the work that made my research valuable is just gone."
Footsteps approach. A coffee mug appears beside my laptop, steam rising with the scent of the dark roast I prefer. Holden doesn't say anything, doesn't offer empty platitudes about recovery or starting over. He just sets the mug down and returns to the table, giving me space to process without leaving me alone with it.
The small gesture eases the tension in my neck and shoulders. Bruce would've hovered, would've made it about him, about how my stress affected him. Would've demanded attention and reassurance while I was drowning in loss.
Holden just brings coffee and goes back to his weapon maintenance. Present without suffocating. Supportive without requiring reciprocation.
I take a sip, let the heat ground me, then close the laptop with careful control. Staring at error messages won't bring the data back. All I'm doing is torturing myself with what's been stolen.
"You've lost someone." The statement comes out quiet, certain. Not a question. I can see it in the careful way he maintains control, the weight he carries in his shoulders. "Someone important."
Holden's hands still on the weapon. For a long moment I think he won't answer, that I've pushed into territory he keeps locked down. Then he sets the slide aside and looks at me directly.
"Wade. He was my swim buddy. Best friend since BUD/S training." Grief roughens his voice despite the measured tone. "Died in an accident on a training. I've replayed that day more times than I can count, convinced I should have spotted something, done something different."
"You were there when it happened." A statement. He holds himself like he's carrying weight no one else can see.
"I was leading a dive training exercise off the coast." He picks up a cleaning cloth; the movements are automatic while he talks. "Wade and I had always agreed that if and when the time came, we’d be each other’s best man.."
"I'm sorry."
"Got tangled in kelp in zero visibility. By the time I fought my way back to him and cut him loose, he'd been under too long." Holden's jaw tightens. "Took me a long time to realize he’d never want me to be alone. He’d never want me to cut myself off from anything good because guilt felt safer than risk."
His words echo my own choices. How many years have I spent keeping everyone at arm's length because Bruce taughtme that trusting someone means giving them power to hurt me? How many connections have I avoided because letting anyone close meant risking another person who couldn't accept boundaries?
"I left Seattle because Bruce couldn't accept that no means no." The words come out before I can stop them, sharing more than I've shared with anyone since arriving at Tidewater. "Bruce was good at his job for the most part, terrible at boundaries. When we broke up, he decided I just needed time to realize we belonged together. Started showing up at my apartment, my work, the coffee shop where I got breakfast every morning."
Holden's expression hardens, but he doesn't interrupt. Just listens with that focused attention that makes me feel heard instead of judged.
"I had a restraining order. It expired. I got another one. He found loopholes. Technically legal visits that felt like stalking because that's exactly what they were." I wrap my hands around the coffee mug, seeking warmth against the chill of memory. "So I applied for contracts as far from Seattle as possible. Packed up my life and ran across the country to escape a man who couldn't understand that love isn't supposed to feel like surveillance."
