"Let me clear it first."
"You think someone broke in?"
"I think I'm checking anyway."
Fair enough. I wait in the hallway while he moves through my apartment, flipping lights, checking closets and windows and anywhere someone could hide. It only takes minutes before he's back at the door.
"Clear. No signs of entry." He steps aside, letting me pass. "Do you have a security system?"
"Basic apartment locks. Nothing special."
"I'll upgrade them tomorrow." He says it like it's already decided, like he's planning to be around tomorrow and the day after that. "Tonight, I'm staying on your couch."
"You don't have to?—"
"Dr. Abernathy." He meets my gaze, hazel eyes serious. "Someone just tried to hurt you because you're investigating equipment theft. They know where you work, probably know where you live. Until NCIS determines the scope of this threat, you need protection."
"And you're volunteering for that duty?"
"I'm not volunteering. I'm doing it." The distinction seems important to him. "You can argue if it makes you feel better, but I'm not leaving you alone tonight."
The certainty in his voice should feel overbearing. Instead, it's oddly reassuring. Someone giving a damn whether I live or die, taking responsibility without making me feel weak for needing backup.
Maybe that's what partnership looks like. Not rescuing, just sharing the load.
"The couch is comfortable," I say finally, too exhausted to keep fighting. "There are blankets in the hall closet."
"I'll find them." He moves toward the closet with the same tactical efficiency he brings to everything. "You should rest. It's late and you've been through hell."
Hell. Accurate description. I look down at my scraped hands and knuckles, bruises already forming across my wrist. Evidence of the fight mapped across my skin.
"Thank you," I tell him. "For tonight. For intervening. For caring enough to help."
Something shifts in his expression, warmth breaking through tactical composure. "You're welcome. Now get some sleep, Doc. Tomorrow's going to be complicated."
I retreat to my bathroom, rinse my face, assess the damage properly. Split lip will heal. Scraped cheek will fade. Bruised ribs will ache for weeks. Nothing permanent. Nothing that won't mend.
Except maybe my sense of safety. Because someone knows what I found, knows I'm a threat, and just proved they're willing to hurt me to keep their operation running.
I change into comfortable clothes, down painkillers, and collapse onto my bed. Through the wall, I hear Captain Caine moving around my living room, settling in. The sounds are oddly comforting. Evidence that I'm not alone. That someone is standing watch while I sleep.
I should be worried about trusting a stranger. Should be questioning his motives or his interest or why he's so determined to protect someone he just met.
But exhaustion wins over caution. My eyes close, dragging me toward sleep.
And the last thought I have before darkness claims me is that Captain Thatcher Caine, with his tactical precision and hazel eyes and hands that stopped someone from hurting me, might be the most dangerous threat to my carefully controlled life.
Because he makes me want to trust again.
And trust is the one thing I can't afford.
2
THATCHER
She disappears into her bedroom. The door closes, lock clicking into place. Smart woman.
I find blankets and a pillow, return to the living room. Stretch out on the couch, immediately aware of how different this is from what I'm used to. The cushions give just right, fabric soft against my skin. Even the pillow feels expensive—down, maybe, nothing like the flat military-issue rectangles I'm accustomed to.
