I hand her a cutting board and vegetables. "Fine. Chop these. Try not to lose a finger."
"Your faith in me is overwhelming."
She chops with careful precision, surgeon's hands adapting to kitchen tasks. I watch while seasoning steaks, noting how she approaches it like an operation—methodical, focused, checking her work.
"You're overthinking it," I say.
"I'm being careful."
"It's vegetables, not a splenectomy."
"Both require precision."
"One requires significantly less precision than the other."
She grins. "Are you questioning my surgical technique?"
"I'm questioning your vegetable-chopping anxiety."
"It's not anxiety. It's—" She pauses. "Okay, it might be slight anxiety. You're very competent at this and I don't want to mess it up."
"Can't mess up chopping vegetables, Gwen."
"Watch me."
But she doesn't. Gets through the whole cutting board without incident, looking pleased with herself when she's done.
"See? Not dead yet."
"The bar for success is very low in your kitchen."
"The bar for success is 'everyone survives.' I'm meeting that bar."
Right on schedule, there's a knock. I check the doorbell camera and see Sullivan grinning.
"Brace yourself," I tell Gwen.
I open the door. Sullivan enters carrying beer, Hayes, Santos and Garcia right behind him with chips and salsa.
"Boss." Sullivan's grin widens when he spots Gwen in the kitchen. "And you must be the hot doctor keeping our captain busy."
Gwen's eyes widen slightly. She glances at me, then back at Sullivan. "I'm—that's not?—"
"Lay off, Sully." I hand him a beer. "She's had a rough week."
"Yeah, heard someone tried to kill you." Santos settles onto the couch, observant eyes already cataloging details. "You doing okay?"
"Better now." Gwen looks slightly overwhelmed by four large Marines filling my small living room. "Your captain takes protective detail seriously."
"He takes everything seriously." Garcia grins. "Except when he doesn't."
I watch Gwen try to find her footing. She's used to commanding ORs, managing residents, handling pressure. Butthis is different. Four men who know me too well, evaluating her, deciding if she's worth my time.
"So," Sullivan says, leaning against the counter too close to Gwen's personal space. "Captain says you're a surgeon. What's the worst thing you've seen?"
Gwen shifts slightly, uncomfortable with the proximity. "Define worst."
"Most disgusting. Most memorable. Whatever makes good dinner conversation."
