Her apartment smells like vanilla and coffee, underlying notes of antiseptic that clings to anyone who works in hospitals. Strange combination—domestic and clinical at once… just like her.
Despite the comfort, every sound registers. Footsteps above us, a door closing down the hall, the heating system cycling. Normal sounds of base housing, but my brain catalogs each one anyway. Deployments in hostile territory make threat assessment automatic, even when I'm lying on a couch that probably cost more than my truck payment.
Sleep won't come easy. It never does when I'm on protective detail. But exhaustion pulls at the edges, and I let myself driftinto that half-conscious state where I'm resting but still tracking my environment.
Gwen moves around in her bedroom for a while. Water running, probably washing up more thoroughly than the EMT was able to provide. The creak of bedsprings. Then silence.
I lie there in her dark living room, surrounded by furniture that's too nice for base housing, and try not to think about the woman sleeping one room away.
My mind keeps drifting back anyway.
Because I noticed Dr. Gwen Abernathy long before tonight. For months now, actually. I bring wounded teammates in for treatment—like tonight with Hayes and his dislocated shoulder from a training exercise gone sideways—and there she is.
Dark hair pulled back, scrubs that somehow look professional on her, moving through the trauma bay with absolute confidence. I've seen her work—once a routine case, once something critical. Both times I was struck by how steady her hands are, how calm her voice stays when everything's chaos.
Both times I made myself look away. Made myself not notice how beautiful she is, how capable, how entirely off-limits for a man who's kept everyone at arm's length since Suzy died.
That was years ago now. Cancer took her, and I held her hand while she slipped away after making me promise not to waste the rest of my life alone. I've spent those years ignoring that promise because distance felt safer than risking that kind of loss again.
Now I'm lying on the couch of a woman I barely know, aware of every breath she takes, feeling things I swore I wouldn't let myself feel.
Eventually exhaustion wins. I drift into restless sleep punctuated by awareness—every car door in the parking lot, every footstep in the hall, the shift of wind against windows. Training never lets you fully disengage.
Pale morning light filters through the curtains when I surface. It's early, the base housing waking around us. I'm on my feet before full consciousness returns, military discipline making the transition automatic.
The apartment is quiet. Gwen's bedroom door is still closed. My watch says it's early, but we've got enough time before the NCIS meeting.
I find her kitchen, start the coffee maker. The machine grinds beans fresh—nice equipment that speaks to money and taste. Everything in this apartment does. The furniture, the art on the walls, even the dishes in her cabinet. She works on a military base, but she comes from somewhere else entirely.
The bedroom door opens while the machine brews. Gwen emerges in her bathrobe. Her hair's damp from the shower, face cleaned of last night's blood. The scrapes look worse in daylight, bruising darkening her cheekbone. She's still beautiful.
"Morning," she says, voice rough with sleep. "Were you able to get any sleep?"
"Some. The couch is comfortable."
She smiles slightly. "I'd say it's a little short for you to stretch out."
"Point taken."
She moves into the kitchen, then pauses. Sways slightly. When's the last time she ate?
"Sit down before you fall down," I say, already opening her fridge.
"Excuse me?"
"You're running on empty. When did you last eat?"
"I don't—" She touches her forehead like she's trying to remember. "Yesterday morning, maybe?"
"Maybe." I pull out eggs, bacon, butter. Her fridge is too organized, everything labeled and dated like a surgical supply cabinet. "Sit down."
"In my own kitchen."
"In your own kitchen where you're about to pass out." I find a pan, set it on the stove. "Sitting is non-negotiable."
She doesn't sit. Instead she leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I'm a hostile witness. "You're very comfortable just taking over."
"You need food. I can cook. Math is simple."
