"You'll have an agent assigned to you. If anything happens, his job is to get you to safety. Your job is to do what he says." He meets my eyes. "I can't do my job if I'm worried about you being in the line of fire."
"I'll stay in the vehicle." The distance between us shrinks. "But I'm going."
His hand cups my face. "You're stubborn as hell."
"You knew that going in."
"I did." He kisses me, quick and hard. "Briefing's in ten. Gear up after."
The briefing is efficient. Rivera outlines the operation: NCIS and Thatcher's MARSOC team hitting Garrison's location simultaneously, coordinated entry, secondary teams securing the perimeter. Briggs is still unaccounted for, so base security is running extra patrols around critical infrastructure.
Thatcher shifts into mission mode, all business and tactical precision. This is what he does, who he is. And knowing he's about to walk into a situation that could go bad makes my throat constrict.
Afterward, while his team gears up, he pulls me aside into an empty office.
"Hey," he says quietly.
"Hey yourself."
"I need you to promise me something."
"Depends what it is."
"If anything goes wrong, if Briggs shows up or the situation deteriorates, you leave. You don't wait for me, you don't try to help, you do what the agent tells you and go."
"Thatcher—"
"Promise me." His hands frame my face, forehead pressing against mine. "I can handle a lot of things. I can't handle losing you."
This thing between us is still new, still being figured out, but it's real. Real enough that the thought of him walking into danger makes my throat tight.
"Come back to me," I say instead.
"Always."
He kisses me like he's memorizing the taste, the feel, everything about this moment. When we break apart, his eyes are dark and determined.
"Time to move," he says.
I follow him to the staging area where his team waits. Sullivan hands me a comm unit, shows me how to work it with patient precision that suggests he's done this before for civilians.
"One channel for command. Another for team comms. You stay on command unless Captain tells you otherwise." He adjusts the earpiece. "Someone talks to you, you respond. Someone gives you an order, you follow it. No heroics."
"Got it."
Santos gives me a tactical vest that's way too big but will stop a bullet. He helps me adjust the straps, makes sure it sits properly despite the size difference.
"Stays on the whole time," he says quietly. "Even in the vehicle. Even if it's uncomfortable."
"Understood."
Garcia just nods, professional and focused, but there's something almost protective in the way he double-checks my vest before moving on to his own gear.
Thatcher checks my vest himself, makes sure it's secure, then meets my eyes. "Stay in the vehicle. Follow orders. Don't be a hero."
"Same to you."
His mouth curves slightly. "I'm always a hero, Doc. It's in the job description."
