But watching Gwen read while evening fades outside, listening to her occasional observations, feeling the ease building between us?—
Yeah. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
3
GWEN
Morning arrives too early.
Sunlight filters through my bedroom curtains, and for one blissful moment I forget about parking lot attacks and federal investigations. Then I shift position and bruised ribs remind me exactly why a Marine is sleeping on my couch.
I drag myself out of bed, assess the damage in my bathroom mirror. The scrapes look worse today, bruising dark across my cheekbone. My split lip is still swollen and tender. My wrist throbs where it connected with the car door.
Professional appearance matters in surgery. Patients need confidence in their surgeon, not questions about why she looks like she lost a bar fight.
Makeup helps. Foundation covers the worst of the bruising, though nothing hides the split lip completely. I dress carefully in scrubs and my white coat, pulling my hair back into a neat ponytail.
When I emerge from my bedroom, Thatcher is already awake. He's folded the blankets with military precision, restored my living room to its normal state. Coffee is brewing, filling the apartment with rich aroma.
"Morning," he says, standing near the kitchen counter. He looks composed in yesterday's clothes, hair damp like he showered in my guest bathroom. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Functional." I accept the mug he offers, our fingers brushing for a moment. The contact jolts through me. "Thank you."
"You've got surgeries scheduled today?"
"A couple this morning. Trauma on call this afternoon." I sip coffee, grateful for the caffeine. "Standard rotation."
"Then I'm with you." He says it matter-of-fact, like there's no question he'll be shadowing me through long shifts. "We should leave soon if you want time to prep."
Right. I don't just have a protective detail anymore. I have a Marine who'll be following me through the hospital, drawing attention.
We drive to the hospital together in Thatcher's truck since my Range Rover is still in the parking lot from the attack. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but I'm hyperaware of him in the driver's seat beside me, the controlled efficiency in every movement.
The hospital parking lot looks normal in the morning light. Nothing sinister about the rows of vehicles, the medical staff heading inside for their shifts. But my pulse kicks when Thatcher pulls into a space, remembering footsteps behind me and hands grabbing my arm.
He's out of the truck before I've even unbuckled, moving around to my door. By the time I grab my bag, he's scanning the area with tactical precision.
"Clear," he says quietly. "Let's move."
Walking into the hospital with him feels different than walking in alone. People notice. Nurses do double-takes. A resident I've worked with stares openly at the imposing man standing behind me.
Beth from the OR catches up to me near the surgical floor entrance. "Dr. Abernathy? You okay? We heard about what happened." Her gaze slides past me to Thatcher, eyes widening. "Oh. Wow."
Heat creeps up my neck. "I'm fine. Just bruised."
"Just—" Beth tears her eyes away from Thatcher. "Gwen, someone attacked you. That's not fine."
"I'm handling it."
"By hiring a bodyguard who looks like he could bench press a Humvee?"
"He's not—" I glance back at Thatcher, who's maintaining professional distance but definitely within earshot. "It's not like that."
Beth leans in, lowering her voice. "If all protective details looked like that, I'd be finding trouble on purpose."
My face is definitely burning now. "Beth."
"Just saying." She grins, then sobers. "But seriously, are you okay? Do you need anything?"
