It's good. Simple but good. I'm hungrier than I realized, cleaning my plate before he's half done with his.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yeah." I set down my fork. "Thank you. For cooking. For staying. For all of it."
"You're welcome."
The words hang between us. This strange partnership we've fallen into—protective detail that's becoming something else. Something I'm not ready to examine too closely.
"I should get some sleep," I say finally.
"Good idea."
I head toward my bedroom, then pause. "Thatcher?"
"Yeah?"
"The couch thing. You don't have to keep sleeping there. I have a guest room."
His expression shifts, something almost like surprise. "You're offering me a real bed?"
"It's just practical. You can't protect me if your back's wrecked from that couch." The reasoning sounds hollow even to me. "Guest room's down the hall. Clean sheets in the closet."
"Thanks."
I disappear into my room before this conversation can get any more awkward. Through the wall, I hear him moving around, settling into the guest room instead of the couch.
The sounds are different but still oddly comforting. Evidence that I'm not alone.
I slide under the covers, close my eyes. Tomorrow will be more of the same. Surgeries and rounds with Thatcher as my constant shadow.
But lying here in the dark, listening to him settle in down the hall, I realize I'm not as bothered by that as I should be.
And I'm not sure what that means.
4
THATCHER
Morning light filters through the guest room window, pulling me from a light sleep. The bed is better than the couch—actual support, room to stretch out. But I still woke twice during the night to check the perimeter.
I check my phone. Zero-five-thirty. Gwen's still asleep.
I make coffee quietly, then grab my gear. Corporal Martinez should be here any minute to cover while I run PT with the team.
Right on schedule, there's a knock. I check the peephole, see Martinez in fatigues.
"Morning, sir." Martinez nods. "Ready when you are."
"Two hours. Anything happens, you call me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Gwen's door opens while I'm lacing my boots. She emerges in a robe, hair messy, eyes still half-closed.
"Morning," she says, voice rough with sleep. "You're leaving?"
"PT with my team. Martinez is here." I gesture to the corporal standing by the door. "I'll meet you at the hospital."
