"I need people to stop looking at me like I'm made of glass."
"Fair enough." She squeezes my shoulder carefully, avoiding the bruises. "Your first case is prepped and ready. Gallbladder removal, should be routine."
"Thanks." I move past her toward the surgical floor. Thatcher's boots make almost no sound on the tile, each movement deliberate and efficient.
In the surgical suite prep area, I pause. "You can't come into the OR."
"Wasn't planning to." He settles against the wall, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. "I'll be right here when you're done."
"Surgery could take hours."
"I'm aware."
"You're going to stand here the whole time?"
"Part of the assignment." His hazel eyes meet mine, unwavering. "Do your work, Doc. I'll do mine."
There's something reassuring about his certainty. Like he's decided I'm worth protecting and nothing will change his mind.
I scrub in, focus on the familiar ritual of preparation. Soap and water, methodical attention to every surface. Through the window, Thatcher is exactly where I left him, standing watch.
The surgery goes smoothly. Routine gallbladder removal, textbook procedure. My hands are solid, muscle memory taking over. This is what I'm good at. This is where I belong.
When I emerge later, Thatcher straightens from his position. He falls into step beside me as I head toward post-op to check on the patient.
"How'd it go?"
"Clean. No complications." I strip off my surgical cap, shoving it in my pocket. "Patient should recover quickly."
"Good."
We walk through the hospital corridors. The way he moves catches my attention. All that precision packed into someone so large. People step aside without him saying a word, some instinct warning them off even in civilian clothes.
Dr. Randolph intercepts us near the physician lounge. "Abernathy. Good work as usual." His gaze slides to Thatcher with undisguised curiosity. "And you are?"
"Captain Thatcher Caine, MARSOC." Thatcher's voice is polite but carries authority. "Dr. Abernathy's protective detail."
"Protective detail." Randolph processes that. "Because of the attack?"
"Because of the ongoing investigation," I correct, not wanting to rehash the parking lot incident. "NCIS is looking into the equipment shortages I reported."
"Right. That." Randolph shifts his weight. "You really think it's theft? Could just be supply chain issues."
"Could be." My smile stays professional. "But I'm documenting everything until NCIS determines otherwise."
Randolph nods slowly, clearly uncomfortable, and leaves quickly.
Thatcher watches him go with assessing eyes. "He was nervous."
"Randolph gets nervous around authority figures." I push open the physician lounge door, grateful for the relative privacy. "Coffee?"
"Yeah."
The lounge is empty this time of morning, most surgeons either in the OR or making rounds. I pour coffee from the communal pot while Thatcher takes up a position where he can see both the door and the windows. Always cataloging exits, always tracking movement patterns.
"You're making people nervous," I say, handing him a cup.
"Good. Nervous people are careful people." He takes the coffee. "Better they're cautious than careless."
