Breakfast is interrupted by banging on the front door. I know that knock—Griff, punctual and impatient as always. Fallon laughs and waves me toward the door while she finishes getting dressed.
Griff and Thatcher stand on my porch, both grinning like idiots. "Morning, Lange," Griff says, pushing past me into the cottage. "Heard you're making breakfast. We're here to supervise."
"Supervise or mooch?"
"Both." Thatcher follows him in, nodding at Fallon as she emerges from the bedroom fully dressed. "Morning, Fallon."
"Morning." She's relaxed with them now, these men who've become friends through missions and proximity, who I trust completely. "There's coffee if you want it."
"See?" Griff settles into one of the leather wingback chairs like he owns the place. "This is what happens when you settle down. You become domesticated. Next thing you know, you'll be planning garden parties and picking out curtains."
"We already picked out curtains," I tell him, deadpan. "Fallon has opinions about natural light."
Fallon throws a dish towel at me. "I have opinions about not waking up to the sun blasting me in the face at five in the morning."
"Fair point." Thatcher accepts the coffee she hands him. "How's the expanded research coming?"
"Good. Really good, actually." She settles onto the arm of my chair, close enough to touch. "The base is taking coastal security seriously now. We're implementing new protocols across multiple training areas. It's the work I always wanted to do, just with better funding and actual authority."
Confidence radiates from her when she talks about her research. Passion evident in every word, hands moving to illustrate points, eyes bright with purpose. Six months ago she was looking over her shoulder. Now she's looking forward.
"And you?" Griff asks me. "Heard congratulations are in order."
The promotion came through last month. Lieutenant Commander to full Commander, recognition for the Rexford operation and the work our team has been doing. More responsibility, more operational oversight, but also the authority to make changes I've wanted to implement for years.
"Official ceremony is next week," I confirm. "Admiral wants to make it a whole thing."
"You earned it." Thatcher's approval means something. He doesn't give compliments lightly. "That offshore interdiction was textbook. Kowalski says you're the best commander he's ever worked with."
My team. Kowalski, Pike, Esposito, Reynolds. Men who follow me into danger, who I bring home alive. They've accepted Fallon's presence in my life with the easy camaraderie of warriors who understand what matters.
"Speaking of operations," Griff says, tone shifting to something more serious. "Commander Hartwell wants to brief us this afternoon. Something about the Rexford case and larger implications."
The good mood in the room dims slightly. Rexford sits in a military prison now, providing intelligence on the network he sold data to in exchange for a reduced sentence. The investigation revealed connections deeper than anyone initially suspected.
"I'll be there," I confirm. "Time?"
"Fourteen hundred. Base command center." Thatcher drains his coffee. "She's bringing in people from other installations too. Whatever this is, it's bigger than Tidewater."
Fallon's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. She knows what this means—more danger, more operations, the possibility of deployment to other bases. But she also knows I can't walk away from it.
"We'll deal with it," she says quietly. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it."
We. Not me facing danger while she worries at home. We, as partners who've learned each other's edges and decided to stay anyway.
After Griff and Thatcher leave with promises to see me at the briefing, I find myself standing at the window, watching the ocean. Fallon comes up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder.
"Want to visit Wade?" she asks quietly.
My throat tightens. She knows where my mind goes when I stare at the water too long. Knows the weight I carry on days when missions loom and uncertainty creeps back in.
"Yeah," I manage. "It's time you met him."
The drive to the memorial park is quiet. Fallon doesn't fill the silence with empty words, just holds my hand while I navigate familiar roads. The park overlooks the ocean, peaceful in the way memorial spaces are, honoring the dead while the living keep moving forward.
Wade's marker sits where I left it years ago. Simple stone. Name, rank, dates, coordinates that match the tattoo on my forearm. Fresh flowers sit in the holder—probably from Wade's sister who lives nearby.
"Wade Garrison," I say, hand touching the cool stone. "My swim buddy, my friend, the brother I chose. He died in a training accident because equipment failed and I couldn't reach him in time."
