"According to the person who broke into your office last night." His voice stays level, patient in a way that makes me want to throw something. "You want to argue about it, fine. Argue. But you're still coming to my place where I can keep you safe."
I zip the bag closed. "You're very used to people following your orders."
"I'm very used to keeping people alive."
"By being bossy and controlling."
"By being direct and not wasting time on arguments that don't matter."
"This matters to me."
"Your safety matters more."
I turn to face him fully. "Stop doing that. Stop deciding what matters more. I get to decide that."
"Not when you're wrong."
"I'm not—" I take a breath. "You know what? Fine. We're going to your place. But we're establishing ground rules."
"What kind of ground rules?"
"The kind where you don't get to make all the decisions. Where we discuss things instead of you announcing them." I grab my bag. "And where you acknowledge that I'm an adult capable of assessing my own risk tolerance."
He's quiet for a moment. "Fair enough."
"Fair enough?"
"You want discussion instead of orders? Fine. We'll discuss." He takes my bag before I can protest. "But when it comes to security decisions, I get final say. That's non-negotiable."
It's not perfect. But it's more than I expected. "Deal."
We load my Range Rover—my bag, my laptop, a few other essentials. Thatcher gives me directions to his place, makes me repeat them back.
"Stay close," he says. "If anything feels off, call me immediately."
"I know how to drive, Thatcher."
"I know you do. But humor me."
The drive to his place is short. I follow his truck through base housing to a different section than mine. His house is a corner unit with a view of the water. Everything about the exterior screams military regulation—neat lawn, trimmed hedges, nothing personal.
Inside is more of the same. Regulation-neat, nothing personal except photos on a shelf. Like he could pack out tomorrow and leave no trace.
"You'll take the primary bedroom," he says, carrying my bag down a short hallway. "It has an attached bath. More privacy."
"Thatcher, I can't take your room?—"
"You can and you will." He sets my bag on the bed. "I cleared out a couple drawers in the dresser yesterday. Figured we might end up here. There's space in the closet too."
I follow him into the bedroom. It's simple but adequate—a bed with military corners on the sheets, a dresser with the drawers he cleared standing open and empty, a small desk under the window.
"This is very—" I search for the right word. "Spartan."
"It's functional."
"It's like a hotel room. Where's your stuff?"
"I have stuff."
