I watch her work and forget to maintain tactical neutrality. The way she handles questions without defensiveness, the confidence in her voice, how she anticipates follow-ups and has data ready—it's impressive as hell.
She glances at me once during the presentation. Brief eye contact, checking if I'm following. I nod slightly. Her mouth curves, barely noticeable, before she returns to explaining supply chain manipulation to Commander Hartwell.
"Who has that kind of access?" Rivera asks.
Gwen lists names, positions, clearance levels. "I've flagged everyone in the spreadsheet along with their access patterns."
"The attack last night," Rivera says. "He knew what you'd found. Which means he's either one of the people you flagged, or working for them."
"Or both," I add. "Theft this systematic suggests inside access."
Gwen's looking at me with something like approval. Recognition that I'm contributing, not just providing muscle.
Rivera outlines next steps—full investigation, protection protocols, movement restrictions. The meeting wraps quickly after that. Professional, efficient, no wasted time.
In the truck afterward, Gwen lets out a long breath.
"That went well," I say.
"It did." She sounds surprised. "They actually listened."
"Told you. You're the expert."
"You contributed too. The inside access observation was good."
"Team effort."
She smiles at that. "Working together."
"Exactly."
I drive us back to her apartment. She's quiet, processing, exhaustion settling in now that the adrenaline of presenting is wearing off.
"You should rest," I say when we're inside.
"I should." But she doesn't move toward her bedroom. Just stands there in her kitchen, still wearing her white coat.
I step closer. "Gwen."
"I'm fine."
"You're running on fumes." I reach out slowly, ease the white coat off her shoulders. "Get some sleep. I'll be here."
She nods. Heads to her bedroom without argument. The door closes. Lock clicks.
I settle onto her couch, pull out my phone. Check in with my team lead. Review meeting notes. Run security protocols in my head.
Hours pass. Mid-afternoon, her bedroom door opens. She emerges in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, hair down, face clean. The bruises show clearly now.
"Feel better?" I ask.
"A little." She moves to the kitchen, fills a glass with water. "How long was I out?"
"Few hours."
"And you just sat there the whole time?"
"That's the job."
