Sally nods and disappears toward the kitchen. Mom waits, hands folded on the table, giving me space to organize my thoughts.
"Devlin is steady," I finally say. "Kind. Completely different from what I expected when I first met him. Duke has decided I'm part of their pack, which apparently means I'm stuck with both of them."
"And how do you feel about that?" Mom asks. "Being stuck?"
The question deserves a real answer. "It's different than Tyler. Tyler and I grew up together, knew each other's families, built something that felt safe and predictable. Devlin is none of those things. He's intense and protective and he doesn't let me hide behind my walls. Being with him feels like choosing the unknown."
Mom reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. "That's not a bad thing, sweetheart. Tyler was wonderful, and you loved him. But you can't build a future by trying to recreate the past. The question is whether you're ready for something new."
"What if it doesn't work?" The concern spills out before I can stop it.
"Then you'll handle it the same way you've handled everything else," Mom interrupts, her voice firm but gentle. "By being strong and stubborn. But Andrea, you can't let what-ifs stop you from living. Your father wouldn't want that. Tyler wouldn't want that. And I sure as hell don't want that for you."
Sally returns with our food, setting down plates with practiced efficiency. The grilled chicken sandwich comes with a side of coleslaw and fries, steam rising from the golden potatoes. Mom's turkey club looks perfect as always, cut into neat triangles the way she prefers.
I pick up a fry, salt and grease familiar on my tongue. "I do love him."
"I know." Mom's smile is warm as she takes a bite of her sandwich. "And that man clearly adores you. So stop overthinking it and just see where it goes."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, ambient noise of the diner filling the space between us. Old Joe at the counter catches my eye and raises his mug in greeting. I wave back, struck by how normal this all feels. How life keeps moving forward despite everything.
"How's work going otherwise?" Mom asks, dabbing her napkin at the corner of her mouth. "Besides the commendation and expansion?"
"Good. Vincent Alder stopped by this morning to thank me for the habitat protocols. Said they saved lives, including his." I pause, considering. "I haven't thought about it that way. I've been so focused on the data and implementation that I forgot about the actual people benefiting from the work."
"That's the difference between you and someone like Hutchins," Mom says quietly. "You do the work because itmatters, not because you need recognition or validation. The results speak for themselves."
The conversation shifts to lighter topics after that. Mom tells me about the new server who keeps mixing up orders, about tourist season picking up as weather warms, about the regular who proposed to his girlfriend in the back booth last week. Normal life continuing, ordinary moments that feel precious after the chaos of the past weeks.
By the time we finish eating and I head back to base, something in my chest feels looser. Like Mom gave me permission to stop punishing myself for surviving, for wanting something good, for choosing to move forward.
The following week passes in a blur of work and preparation for testimony. Devlin stops by my office one afternoon with Duke, ostensibly to coordinate on a training exercise near my survey sites, but really just to check on me. Duke immediately comes over for attention, pushing his massive head under my hand for ear scratches.
"Ready for next week?" Devlin asks, leaning against my desk with his arms crossed.
"As ready as I'll ever be." I focus on Duke, letting the solid warmth of him ground me. "It's just testimony. I know what happened. The evidence is clear."
"Still not easy." Devlin's voice is quiet, understanding. "Facing him again."
"No," I admit. "But it's necessary. And I'm not doing it alone."
The look he gives me carries weight I'm still learning to interpret. Not pity, not worry, but something steadier. Like he believes in my ability to handle this, but he's going to be there anyway.
When the court-martial finally arrives, I dress in professional civilian attire—navy slacks, white blouse, low heels that won'tmake noise on the courtroom floor. The drive to the base legal offices feels surreal, like I'm watching myself from a distance.
The courtroom is smaller than I expected, paneled in dark wood with the military justice system's formal trappings evident in every detail. Hutchins sits at the defendant's table in his service uniform, stripped of rank insignia, looking smaller than he did in the wetlands with a knife in his hand. His attorney, a sharp-featured captain with graying hair, shuffles papers with brisk efficiency.
The prosecution presents their case methodically over several days. Photographs Hutchins took of me, timestamped and geotagged. Detailed notes about my schedule found in his quarters. Damaged equipment from my office with his fingerprints. Security footage showing him loitering near my workspace. Witnesses who heard his rants about women destroying the military, who saw his obsession with my presence on base.
When it's finally my turn to testify, I take the stand with my spine straight and my hands folded in my lap. The prosecutor, a no-nonsense major named Williams, approaches with a tablet in hand.
"Miss O'Rourke, can you describe the first incident that made you aware someone was targeting you?"
I take a breath, centering myself. "I found a note on my desk approximately three months ago. It said that I didn't belong on base and should leave before something bad happened."
"And what did you do with that note?"
"I reported it to base security and filed an incident report with my supervisor."
