"We make a good team."
"Yeah. We do."
The next hours are a blur of processing, evidence cataloging, and statements. Rivera wants every detail documented while it's fresh. Briggs invokes his right to counsel immediately, but Garrison's lawyer is already negotiating a deal in exchange for testimony about the larger network.
By the time we're finished with the initial debrief, it's late. I find Gwen in the NCIS break room, nursing cold coffee and reviewing her notes.
"Ready to get out of here?" I ask.
She looks up, exhaustion clear on her face. "More than ready. But Rivera said she needs my full statement about the camera monitoring and?—"
"She can get it tomorrow. You've been at this since early this morning." I extend my hand. "Come on. I'm taking you home."
"Your home or mine?"
"Mine. It's closer, and you look like you're about to fall over."
She doesn't argue, just takes my hand and lets me pull her up. We collect her things, navigate the gauntlet of NCIS personnel still processing evidence and finally make it to the parking lot.
The drive back to the house is quiet. She sits in my passenger seat, head tilted back against the headrest, eyes closed. Not asleep, just exhausted. I pull into my driveway, and the ocean is barely visible in the darkness beyond, just the faint sound of waves in the distance. I kill the engine. The sudden silence feels heavy after the chaos of the day.
We walk up to the house in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from shared exhaustion and relief that everyone made it out alive.
Inside, I strip off the tactical vest, the gear, and weapons secured in the safe. Gwen stands in my kitchen, leaning against the counter like she's too tired to remain upright without support.
"Shower?" I suggest.
"That's the best offer I've had all day."
I turn on the water, let it heat while we strip out of the day's clothes. Under the spray, her hands are gentle on my ribs where bruises are already forming from the tackle, fingers tracing the edges with careful attention. I wince when she finds a particularly tender spot.
"You need ice," she murmurs.
"Later."
"Thatcher—"
"Later." I turn her to face me, tilt her chin up. Water streams between us. "Right now I just need this."
She understands. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, my neck, threading into my hair. I kiss her slowly, thoroughly, taking my time now that the urgency has passed. No rushing, nodesperate need to confirm she's safe. Just the two of us, warm water, and the quiet intimacy of shared space.
When we finally get out, she towels off and immediately raids my dresser for clothes. She comes out wearing one of my Marine Corps t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, looking rumpled and half-asleep.
"Stealing my clothes again?" I ask.
"They're comfortable." She climbs into bed, burrows under the covers. "Besides, you like it."
I do. More than I probably should.
I join her, pull her against my side. She curls into me naturally, like we've been doing this for years instead of days. Her head rests on my shoulder, one hand over my heart.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"For what?"
"Today. Trusting me when Briggs had that gun. Staying calm on the cameras, feeding us intel." I pause. "For being exactly who you are."
She's quiet for a moment, her breath warm against my skin. Then she shifts slightly, props herself up just enough to look at me in the dim light.
