"Insider threat." Rivera's jaw tightens. "We'll investigate. In the meantime, you need somewhere safe to stay tonight. Captain Caine has volunteered to provide security until we can arrange formal protection."
I turn to look at him. "You don't have to do that."
"I know." His gaze is steady, unflinching. "Doing it anyway."
The certainty in his voice leaves no room for argument. And honestly, I'm too exhausted to fight about it. My hands are shaking, adrenaline crash hitting hard now that the immediate danger has passed. Going home alone to an apartment that suddenly feels exposed doesn't appeal.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Thank you."
Rivera provides contact information and reminds me to call if anything else happens or if I remember additional details. The EMT clears me to leave, warning signs for concussion thoroughly explained. Base security takes final statements.
And then it's just me and Captain Caine in a parking lot that looks too normal for having witnessed an attempted assault less than an hour ago.
"My car is this way," he says, gesturing toward a truck several rows over. "I'll drive you home, check your apartment's security, and make sure no one followed us."
"I have my own vehicle." I point toward my Range Rover, still sitting under lights with keys scattered on the pavement nearby.
"You're in shock and possibly concussed. I'm driving." His tone brooks no argument. "We can arrange to get your SUV tomorrow."
Logic says he's right. My hands are still shaking, head throbbing where it connected with metal. Driving isn't safe. But accepting help means trusting someone I just met, letting a stranger into my space and my life.
Past experience taught me that trust is dangerous.
But standing in this parking lot where someone just tried to kill me, looking at the Marine who intervened without hesitation, I remember that isolation is dangerous too.
"Okay," I say again, forcing my brain to cooperate. "Let's go."
He retrieves my keys from the pavement, locks my Range Rover, and guides me toward his truck with a hand hovering near my lower back without quite touching. Protective withoutbeing possessive, respectful of space while still providing support.
The drive to my apartment is quiet. I rest my head against the window, watching streetlights blur past while my brain tries to process everything that just happened. Captain Caine—Thatcher, my brain supplies, though I didn't ask permission to use his first name—drives with the same controlled competence he brought to the parking lot. Checking mirrors, aware of surroundings, focused.
"How long have you been at Tidewater?" he asks, breaking the silence.
"A little less than a year." I don't elaborate.
"You said you were taught to fight back. Self-defense training?"
"Living in cities. Walking to hospitals alone." I close my eyes. "You learn to pay attention."
He doesn't push. Just nods like he understands that some stories need telling in their own time.
We arrive at my apartment complex. Caine parks, scans the lot, then looks at the building with something like surprise.
"You're in base housing?"
"Temporary arrangement." I'm too tired for lengthy explanations, but his confusion is reasonable. "When I accepted the position, I negotiated temporary housing until I could get on my feet. They had empty units, I needed somewhere to land after leaving Boston."
"How temporary?"
"I need to start looking for my own place off-base." I unbuckle my seatbelt. "Haven't had time with the surgery schedule."
He nods, accepting that, then catalogs exits and sightlines with tactical awareness before opening my door. I let him, too tired to argue about being capable of opening my own door.
"Which unit?" he asks.
"Second floor. 2B."
He walks slightly ahead up the stairs, positioning himself between me and potential threats. Professional security sweep disguised as escort service. At my door, he waits while I unlock it, then gestures for me to stay back.
