Duke whines from the bedroom, and I follow the sound to find him alerting at her dresser. Drawers hang slightly open, contents disturbed. Whoever broke in went through her things, touched her personal belongings, invaded her privacy in the most intimate way possible.
"This is psychological warfare," I say, keeping my voice calm and factual even though rage coils tight in my chest. "They want you to feel unsafe everywhere. Home, work, nowhere is off limits. They're escalating the fear factor."
"It's working." Andi crosses her arms over her chest, hands trembling. "I can't stay here tonight. I can't sleep knowing they were just in my bedroom, going through my things."
"You're not staying here." I pull out my phone to call base security. "Captain Nelson needs to know about this, and we need evidence collection. But you're coming with me to base. There are secure hotel rooms for visiting personnel. Monitored, controlled access, safe."
She nods, and the fact that she doesn't argue tells me how rattled she really is. Andi O'Rourke doesn't strike me as someone who admits vulnerability easily, but right now she's scared and smart enough to recognize when she needs help.
Nelson arrives with a security team within the hour. They process the scene, collect evidence, document everything. Duke keeps returning to Andi's side, pressing against her leg like he's providing physical support. She absently pets him while giving her statement, and I watch how his presence grounds her, how she draws comfort from that contact without seeming to realize she's doing it.
By the time we're cleared to leave, it's well past midnight. Andi packs a bag with essentials, moving through her cottage with the kind of forced calm that comes from refusing to fall apart. I respect that. She's dealing with this the way I would, compartmentalizing fear and focusing on practical next steps.
We drive back to base in silence. Duke rides in the back seat, and Andi sits in the passenger seat staring out the window. I don't push conversation. Sometimes silence is what someone needs after trauma, space to process without having to perform being okay.
Base security waves us through the gate, and I drive to the lodging building near the operations center. Rooms here are basic but functional, designed for short-term stays by personnel on temporary assignment. More importantly, they're secure. Badge access, security cameras, regular patrols.
I get her checked in, and we take the elevator to the third floor. Her room is exactly what I expected: standard military lodging with a bed, desk, small bathroom, and absolutely no personality. But it's clean, safe, and no one is getting in without authorization.
"Thank you," Andi says, setting her bag on the bed. "For responding so fast, for getting me out of there, for all of this."
"It's my job." My words come out automatic, and I regret them immediately when her expression shutters. "That came out wrong. I mean, protecting you is my job, but I'd have done it anyway. Job or no job."
Her eyes meet mine, searching for something. "Why?"
You matter. Duke claimed you, and he's never wrong about people. Today, watching you work, listening to your passion about your mission—somewhere along the way you stopped being just an assignment. You became someone I care about, and that terrifies me more than any threat.
But I don't say any of that.
"Because what happened to you tonight was wrong," I say instead, keeping it safe and professional. "No one should have to feel like this in their own home. And your work is too important to let some asshole with a grudge drive you away."
She nods slowly, but I can see she knows I'm not saying everything. Duke makes the decision for me, walking over to Andi and pressing his head against her hand. She scratches behind his ears, and he leans into her touch like he's been doing it for years instead of hours.
"He really has claimed you," I say, grateful for the subject change. "I've never seen him bond with anyone this fast."
"What does that mean? The claiming thing?"
"Military working dogs form strong bonds with their handlers, but they're trained to maintain professional distance with everyone else. Duke knows the difference between team members and civilians, between people who are part of missions and people who aren't." I watch him press closer into her touch, practically groaning with pleasure. "But sometimes a dog will decide someone is pack. Not handler, not team, but family. It doesn't happen often, and when it does, it's absolute. Duke has decided you're pack."
"And you trust his judgment."
"Always. Dogs don't lie, don't manipulate, don't pretend. If Duke says you're safe, you're safe. If he says you're pack, you're pack. He's never been wrong about people."
Andi looks down at Duke, something soft crossing her features. "I had a dog growing up. Golden Retriever named Moses. He was my best friend through everything after Dad died. I told him secrets I couldn't tell anyone else, cried into his fur when it got too hard. He died the year after my husband, Tyler." She pauses, fingers still working through Duke's fur. "I haven't had a dog since. Losing them hurts too much."
"Losing anyone hurts too much," I say quietly. "But the alternative is never caring about anyone, and that's just existing, not living."
"Is that what you do? Just exist?"
Her question cuts deeper than she probably intended. I could deflect, change the subject, maintain the walls I've built so carefully over the years. But standing here in this sterile hotel room with this woman who's been attacked and violated and is still standing strong, those walls feel weaker than they have in years.
"Yeah," I admit. "I had a best friend. Ryan. We went through K9 training together, deployed together. Three years ago, we were clearing a route in hostile territory. I was working with my previous partner, Ajax." I pause, the weight of that day settling heavy. "Ryan's dog alerted to a secondary device that Ajax had completely missed. Ryan saw it first, called out the threat and moved to investigate before I could assess and give the order. I yelled for him to hold position, but he kept going. Said he had the angle, that his dog had already alerted. The IED detonated before I could pull him back. Ryan and his dog died instantly."
"That wasn't your fault."
"My head knows that. My head knows that Ryan made the choice to advance because it was his job, that IEDs are designedto be missed, that even the best handlers can't catch everything. But the rest of me can't forget that Ajax missed that device. That I wasn't fast enough to see it myself or stop Ryan from moving. That he had a wife and kids waiting for him, and I'm the one who came home instead."
Andi's expression is understanding in a way that goes beyond sympathy. "Tyler died in a training accident four years ago. Vehicle rollover during a routine exercise. Mechanical failure that should have been caught during maintenance checks." Her voice is steady, but I can hear the old pain underneath. "He was twenty-four. We'd been married for two years. I spent months wondering if I should have pushed him harder to get out, if I should have fought more against him staying in, if there was something I could have done to change that day."
