"Someone should keep an eye on civilian contractors working in isolated areas. Security protocol."
"Right. Security protocol." Griff straightens and nods toward the dock, where Fallon is moving through her pre-departure checks. "That why you memorized her routine? Her schedule? The way she braids her hair before fieldwork?"
"You're annoying."
"I'm observant. There's a difference." He claps me on the shoulder. "When you gonna actually talk to her? You know, beyond the awkward 'are you okay out here' conversation that made her look at you like you might be a serial killer?"
I did talk to her this morning. For approximately ninety seconds before she made it clear she wanted me gone. Can't say I blame her. Strange man approaches lone woman on isolated beach at dawn. Not exactly a meet-cute.
"I'm not interested in Dr. McKay," I say. "I'm interested in making sure base personnel and contractors stay safe. That's my job."
"Your job is leading SEAL Team Seven. Base security is Hartwell's department." Griff's grin fades slightly. "Look, I get it. After Wade, you've kept things casual. No attachments, no entanglements. But that scientist has you tied up in knots whether you admit it or not."
Wade's name sends that familiar ache through my chest. Two years since the training dive that killed him, two years since I spent forty-seven minutes searching cold California waters for my swim buddy. They cleared me of wrongdoing—equipment failure, not operator error—but losing Wade made me more careful. More focused on keeping my team safe. Less willing to invest energy anywhere else.
Except I can't seem to stop watching Fallon McKay anyway.
"I'm fine," I tell Griff. "And I'm going to be late for briefing if you keep running your mouth."
"Fair enough." Griff starts backing down the beach toward the path that leads to the main base. "But for what it's worth? Life's short, brother. Wade would tell you the same thing."
He's right. Wade would absolutely tell me to stop being an idiot and ask the pretty scientist out for coffee. Wade believed in living hard, loving harder, and never let past mistakes rob you of your future.
But Wade also died doing what he loved, and I've been making sure no one else on my team follows him.
I watch Griff disappear down the path before turning my attention back to the water. Fallon's boat is still docked, engine running as she completes her final checks. Through the early morning light, I can just make out her profile. Auburn hair in that practical braid, safety vest bright orange against her dark tank top. Curves that even baggy clothes can't hide, and a focused intensity that makes me want to know what she's thinking.
Three months of watching from a distance, and I still don't have a good reason for this pull. Chemistry, maybe. Attraction, definitely. But it's more than that. The way she moves through the world with fierce independence and zero apologies makes me want to know her story.
Not that she's offering to share it.
Fallon casts off the dock lines and eases the boat away from the pier. The engine sounds smooth, the movements practiced. Everything normal. Everything exactly as it should be for a routine research survey on a calm morning.
So why can't I shake this feeling?
I pull out my phone again and check the maritime coordination brief for today. No naval exercises scheduled. Norestricted areas active. Clear access to civilian research grids. Fallon should have an easy morning collecting her data and returning before the wind picks up.
Should have.
The boat is about two hundred yards offshore now, heading toward the boundary where the Chesapeake Bay transitions to the Atlantic. That's Fallon's preferred survey area. Complex current patterns, interesting sediment dynamics, all the things that make marine biologists excited about rocks and water.
I'm still watching when the change comes.
Can't say what exactly. Just a shift in the boat's movement, maybe. A hesitation in the engine sound that carries across the water. Subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice. But I'm trained to notice subtle shifts that mean danger.
My hand moves to the small binoculars I keep in my running pack. Instinct from a thousand drills. SEALs are taught to observe, assess, and act. Right now, observation says the threat I can't articulate is real.
I raise the binoculars and focus on the research vessel. Through the lenses, I can see Fallon at the helm, throttle pulled back to idle. She's looking down at the instrument panel or listening to the engine.
Smart woman. She knows her boat. If there's an issue, she'll turn back and report it to base maintenance.
Except she's not turning back.
She's advancing the throttle again, moving forward despite whatever caught her attention. The boat picks up speed, heading away from shore toward her survey coordinates.
Every instinct I have starts screaming.
I don't know why. Can't articulate the threat. Just know with absolute certainty that Fallon McKay is in danger and I'm too far away to do anything about it.
