The drive back to my townhouse was silent, but it was a different kind of silence than before. This wasn't the comfortable, content quiet of two people wrapped in their own bubble. This was a thick, charged stillness, humming with the aftermath of violence and the grim reality that had just crashed our lunch date.
Clyde drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh, a steady, grounding weight. His gaze constantly flicked between the road and the mirrors, a continuous, silent threat assessment. The easygoing man who had debated the merits of bacon placement was gone, replaced by the soldier, hyper-vigilant and coiled tight.
I watched his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the focused intensity in his eyes. My heart was still doing a erratic tap-dance against my ribs, a mix of residual fear and something else… something awestruck. I had just watched him take down two armed men in the space of a heartbeat without breaking a sweat. He'd been a whirlwind of controlled, precise violence. It should have terrified me. Instead, it made me feel… safe. Profoundly, unshakably safe.
We pulled up to my townhouse, and the scene that greeted us was anything but normal. Parked discreetly down the street were two dark SUVs, identical to the one we were in. Leaning against them were three men who looked like they'd been carved from the same granite as Clyde. They wore tactical vests over dark clothing, and their alert postures screamed military even from a distance.
Clyde killed the engine and turned to me. The intensity in his eyes softened marginally. "My team," he said by way of explanation. "I called them ahead. Standard procedure after a breach." He reached over and squeezed my hand. "It's going to be okay. They're the best."
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. This was my life now. Armed guards outside my suburban home. Because I was good with numbers.
As we got out of the car, the three men straightened up. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard and kind eyes that seemed at odds with his formidable appearance, stepped forward.
"All clear, Chief," he said to Clyde, his voice a low rumble. "Swept the interior and exterior. No devices, no signs of entry. Place is clean."
"Good work, Jin," Clyde said, clapping the man on the shoulder. He turned to me, his hand finding the small of my back again. "Troy, this is Lieutenant Kenji Jin, my second-in-command. Jin, this is Troy Nash."
Jin offered me a smile that was surprisingly warm. "Mr. Nash. Heard a lot about you. It's an honor to finally meet the man who's been giving our analysts night sweats." His tone was respectful, professional, but there was a glint of genuine admiration in his eyes.
"Mostly it's just me and my calculator," I managed, shaking his offered hand. His grip was firm but careful.
Clyde gestured to the other two men. "That's Espinoza,"—a younger man with a cheerful grin and a wicked-looking scar through his eyebrow gave a two-fingered salute—"and Cooper." Cooper, a tall, lean man with a serious expression and sharp eyes, nodded curtly.
"They'll be maintaining perimeter security tonight," Clyde explained. "We've got the place locked down."
It was overwhelming. These were real, live Navy SEALs, standing on my manicured lawn, talking about locking down my house because my work had made me a target. The surreality of it was dizzying.
"Right," I said, feeling utterly out of my depth. "Um… would you guys like to come in? I think I have some… beer? Or… water?"
Jin's smile widened. "We're good, sir. Thank you. We've got our own post." He nodded toward the SUVs. "We'll be out here if you need anything."
Clyde guided me inside, and the moment the door closed, the bizarre normalcy of my home felt like a museum exhibit. Everything was in its place, clean and quiet, a stark contrast to the armed camp outside.
"I should… I should make dinner," I said, because it was the only normal thing I could think to do.
"I'll do it," Clyde said, already heading for the kitchen. "You've had enough excitement for one day. Sit. Relax."
I didn't argue. I collapsed onto the sofa and watched him move through my kitchen with a familiar ease that was both comforting and strange. He rummaged through my fridge and pantry, emerging with pasta, garlic, olive oil, and a jar of olives.
"You cook," I observed, for what felt like the hundredth time.
"I told you. Necessary skill." He filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. "Also, my team's MREs would make you weep. I started cooking to preserve morale."
The image of a younger Clyde cooking for a team of burly SEALs in some dusty outpost made me smile. "I bet you were very popular."
"I had my moments," he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he minced garlic with terrifying speed and precision.
He whipped up a simple aglio e olio that was, predictably, the best pasta I had ever eaten. We ate at my dining table, the silence between us easier now, softened by the presence of food and the familiar routine.
After we cleaned up, the fatigue of the day finally hit me like a ton of bricks. The adrenaline crash left me feeling hollowed out and heavy. Clyde seemed to sense it.
"Bed," he said, his tone brooking no argument.
We got ready for bed in a comfortable silence. When we finally slipped under the covers, he didn't immediately pull me into his arms. He just turned on his side to face me, his head propped on his hand. The moonlight coming through the window illuminated the sharp planes of his face.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, his voice quiet in the dark.
"I am," I said, and realized I meant it. "Because you were there."
He reached out and traced the line of my jaw with his thumb. "I will always be there."
He leaned in and kissed me then. It wasn't a kiss of passion or hunger. It was slow and deep and incredibly sweet, a silent promise against my lips. It was a kiss that said I see your fear, and I'm here. It was a kiss that felt like coming home.
When we finally broke apart, he tucked me against his side, my head on his chest. I listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart, a rhythm more calming than any lullaby. Outside, I knew his team was standing watch. But in here, in the dark, there was only us. Only this.
"Clyde?" I whispered into the quiet.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. For today. For… everything."
His arm tightened around me. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "Go to sleep, Troy," he murmured, his voice already thick with drowsiness. "I've got the watch."
And for the first time since a knife had pressed into my back in a grocery store, I closed my eyes and knew, without a single doubt, that I truly did.
The sound that pulled me from the deepest, most dreamless sleep of my life wasn't my usual blaring digital alarm. It was a low, resonant gong, followed by the soft, steady cadence of breathing. My eyes fluttered open. Early morning light, the pale grey of pre-dawn, filtered through the blinds.
Clyde was already awake. He wasn't in bed, but on the floor beside it, sitting cross-legged on a simple yoga mat I hadn't even known he owned. His back was to me, ramrod straight, his hands resting on his knees. The low gong had been from a meditation app on his phone. The breathing was his—deep, controlled inhalations and exhalations that seemed to fill the room with a sense of profound calm.
I lay there, propped on an elbow, and just watched him. In the quiet half-light, he looked like a statue carved from something ancient and unyielding. The powerful muscles of his back and shoulders were relaxed yet defined, the faint scars on his skin like silver threads in the gloom. This was his ritual. The calm before whatever storm the day might bring. It was so intrinsically him—a man of immense physical power who dedicated this sacred, quiet time to mastering the stillness within.
After a few minutes, the gentle gong sounded again. He unfolded himself from the floor with a fluid grace that was mesmerizing and rose to his feet. He caught my eye and offered a small, soft smile. "Morning."
"Morning," I croaked, my voice still rough with sleep. "Since when do you do yoga?"
"Since always," he said, stretching his arms overhead and making every muscle in his torso ripple in a way that should have been illegal before coffee. "A flexible soldier is a live soldier. Also, it's hell on the lower back to be folded into a submarine for weeks on end." He nodded toward the bathroom. "Shower's all yours."
The shower was still steamy from his use and smelled overwhelmingly of his sandalwood soap. I stood under the hot spray, trying to wake up properly, the image of his serene, powerful form burned onto the back of my eyelids.
When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, the smell of coffee and something savory hit me. Clyde was in the kitchen, and he was… flowing. It was the only word for it. He'd swapped his workout shorts for low-slung sweatpants that did incredible things for his backside, and he was moving between the stove and the counter with a dancer's economy of motion. Scrambled eggs were fluffing in a pan, bacon was sizzling, and toast was popping.
"I thought I was the cook today," I said, leaning against the doorway.
He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze doing a quick, appreciative sweep from my damp hair to my bare feet. "You were busy being asleep. And I was hungry. Sit."
I did as I was told, watching him plate the food with the same focused precision he did everything. He set a perfect breakfast in front of me, then sat opposite me with his own. We ate in a comfortable silence, the events of the previous day feeling like a distant, bad dream.
After breakfast, he rinsed the plates and placed them in the dishwasher. Then, without a word, he unrolled his yoga mat right there in the middle of my living room.
I blinked. "Uh. What are you doing?"
"Sun salutations," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Gotta keep the flexibility." He got down on the mat and began a series of stretches that made my own muscles ache in sympathy.
I had intended to go straight to my office. The Meridian Fund wasn't going to unravel itself. But I found I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot, my coffee mug frozen halfway to my mouth, utterly captivated.
This wasn't the serene meditation from this morning. This was… something else entirely. It was strength and grace fused together. He moved through the poses with a powerful, controlled elegance that was breathtaking. He flowed from downward dog into a plank that looked as solid as a concrete slab, his body a straight, rigid line of pure muscle. Then he shifted into a chaturanga, lowering his body with impossible slowness and control until his chest was barely an inch from the mat, before pushing up into an upward dog that arched his back and made every cord and sinew in his arms and shoulders stand out in stark relief.
I was openly staring. My mouth might have been slightly agape. It was the most physically beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was art and power and discipline, all wrapped up in a pair of soft grey sweatpants.
He moved into a warrior pose, one leg bent, arms stretched out, his gaze focused and intense. He held it, perfectly still, a monument of balance and strength. A tiny bead of sweat traced a path down the defined valley of his spine.
I made a small, involuntary sound. A choked-off gasp.
His focus broke. His head turned, those pale blue eyes finding me. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. He held the pose for another second, just to drive the point home, before gracefully straightening.
"See something you like, Nash?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble.
I finally remembered how to swallow. "I… I should get to work," I managed, my voice coming out embarrassingly high-pitched.
His smirk widened. He walked over to me, his body glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. He plucked the forgotten coffee mug from my hand, took a sip, and handed it back. "Yeah," he said, his eyes dancing with amusement. "You do that."
He dropped a quick, sweaty kiss on my forehead before heading toward the shower, leaving me standing in my living room, holding a lukewarm coffee, my brain completely short-circuited.
It took a full ten minutes for the blood to return to my brain from… other areas. I finally made it to my office, sinking into my chair and firing up my computers. The numbers on the screen seemed dull and lifeless compared to the memory of Clyde's sun salutation.
I heard the shower turn off. A few minutes later, he appeared in the doorway of my office, freshly showered and dressed in a dark henley and jeans, his hair damp. He'd shaved. He looked devastating.
He didn't say anything. He just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watched me with that same small, knowing smile.
"Stop that," I said, trying and failing to sound stern.
"Stop what?" he asked, all innocence.
"Distracting me."
"You're the one who stopped to watch," he pointed out, his voice laced with humor. "I was just maintaining operational readiness."
I shook my head, a laugh finally breaking through my flustered exterior. "You are impossible."
He pushed off the doorframe and walked over to me. He leaned down, his hands on the arms of my chair, caging me in. "And you," he said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur, "are very easily distracted." He kissed me, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of mint and coffee and promise. "Now get to work. I'll be right here."
He took his usual seat in the corner, pulling out his laptop. But the air in the room had changed. It was charged, playful, and filled with a new, unspoken intimacy. I looked at the numbers on my screen, then back at him. The hunter and the warrior. The calculator and the yoga mat.
Somehow, it all made perfect sense.
The morning bled into afternoon in a comfortable, focused haze. The hypnotic rhythm of Clyde's yoga routine had been replaced by the soft click of my keyboard and the occasional rustle of him turning a page in a military logistics report. The memory of his powerful, graceful movements, however, was a persistent, pleasant distraction simmering just below the surface of my concentration. Every so often, I'd glance over at him, sitting in the chair in the corner, and my stomach would do a little flip. He'd catch my eye and offer a small, private smile that felt like a shared secret.
Around one o'clock, my stomach issued a loud, protesting gurgle that echoed in the quiet room.
Clyde looked up from his laptop, one eyebrow raised. "Was that your stomach or is there a small animal trapped in your desk?"
"That was my stomach formally requesting a lunch break," I said, saving my work and stretching my arms over my head. "I'm thinking sandwiches. I promise not to critique the structural integrity of the bread."
He grinned, closing his laptop. "I'll hold you to that."
We were headed toward the kitchen when his phone, sitting on my desk, buzzed. Not the normal ringtone, but a specific, insistent trill that made him freeze mid-step. His entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The relaxed set of his shoulders snapped into rigidity. The playful light in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a flat, focused intensity.
He strode back to the desk and scooped up the phone. He didn't look at the screen. He knew. "Adams," he answered, his voice clipped and professional.
I stood frozen by the doorway, watching him. He listened for a moment, his expression giving nothing away. "Yes, sir. I'm with him now." A pause. His eyes flicked to me, then away. "Acknowledged. The DXR-729 transaction was the key. Nash isolated it last night." He said my name with a tone of pure, professional respect that sent a strange thrill through me.
He listened again, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Understood. The attempted extraction at the restaurant confirms they're getting desperate. They know he's the linchpin." The word 'extraction' sounded so much colder and more clinical than 'attack'. "The security team is in place. No, sir. I haven't… informed him of that yet."
Informed me of what? A cold trickle of anxiety started to seep through the warmth of the morning.
Clyde was silent for a long time, listening to whoever was on the other end—his Commanding Officer, I presumed. His gaze was fixed on a point on the wall, but he was seeing something else entirely. The muscles in his jaw worked.
"Sir, with all due respect," he said, his voice dropping, taking on a harder edge I'd never heard him use before. It was the voice of a man used to being obeyed. "Pulling me now would be a catastrophic error. My presence here is the primary reason the asset is still operational and producing results."
Asset. The word shouldn't have stung, but it did. It was a bucket of cold water on the warm, fuzzy feelings from earlier. Operational. I was a mission. A job.
He listened again, and a faint flush of anger touched his neck. "I understand the op in Kazakhstan is a priority, Captain. But so is this. The intelligence Nash is unraveling has direct implications for half a dozen active hotspots, including Kazakhstan. Taking me off this assignment would be cutting off the head to treat a papercut."
There was another long pause. I could almost feel the tension radiating off him, a live wire sparking in my quiet office.
"Yes, sir," he finally said, the words tight, forced. "I understand the chain of command. I'll await your final decision. Adams out."
He ended the call and stood perfectly still for a moment, his back to me, the phone clenched in his hand. The silence in the room was deafening.
My heart was hammering against my ribs. Kazakhstan. Pulling him. He was going to be reassigned. Taken away. The thought was a physical pain, a sudden, sharp ache in my chest.
I must have made a sound, a small, involuntary intake of breath, because he turned around. The professional mask was gone. In its place was a look of raw frustration and something else… something that looked like fear.
He crossed the room in three long strides. He didn't say a word. He just reached out and cupped the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the tense muscle there. His touch was firm, grounding.
"Troy," he said, his voice rough.
"They're pulling you," I whispered, the words tasting like ash.
"They're trying to," he corrected, his gaze burning into mine. "It's not going to happen."
"But your CO… the mission…"
"My mission is right here," he interrupted, his voice low and fierce. His other hand came up, framing my face. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone. "You are my mission. You are the most important assignment I have ever been given. And I am not leaving you."
The conviction in his voice was absolute. It was more than a soldier following orders. It was a man making a choice. His choice.
He leaned in, resting his forehead against mine. "I meant what I said, Troy. I've got you. That's not changing. Not for Kazakhstan, not for anyone."
The cold anxiety began to recede, burned away by the heat of his certainty. He wasn't just protecting an asset. He was protecting me. The distinction was everything.
I let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch. "Okay," I breathed.
He kissed me then. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of promise. It was hard and desperate and reassuring all at once. When he pulled back, his eyes were still serious.
"Now," he said, his voice returning to something closer to normal, though a hard edge remained. "About that lunch. I believe you promised me a sandwich of sound structural integrity."
I managed a weak smile. "I did."
"Good." He slid his hand from my neck down to my lower back, his touch possessive and steadying. "Let's go. I'm starving."
He guided me out of the office, his hand a warm, permanent brand on my back. The fear wasn't gone, but it was manageable. Because the man who had just stared down his own Commanding Officer for me was walking by my side, and he wasn't going anywhere.
The comfortable haze of the afternoon had settled back over us, thick and syrupy. We were curled up on my sofa, a forgotten documentary about deep-sea fish playing on the television. My back was against Clyde's chest, his arms wrapped around me, his chin resting on top of my head. We weren't really watching; we were just… being. A solid, warm weight of contentment had replaced the cold knot of anxiety from his earlier call.
I could feel the steady thump of his heart against my spine, a rhythm more soothing than any narration about bioluminescent squid. His fingers were tracing idle patterns on my forearm, his touch feather-light and distracting in the best possible way. I was just considering turning my head to steal a kiss when his phone, sitting on the coffee table, erupted with that same, insistent, official trill.
The peaceful atmosphere shattered.
Clyde's body went rigid against mine. The gentle tracing of his fingers stopped. He let out a soft, frustrated sigh that was more a puff of air against my hair. "Damn it," he muttered.
He didn't jump up. Instead, he gave me a quick, apologetic squeeze before carefully extracting himself from our tangle of limbs. He snagged the phone, his expression already shifting into that unreadable, neutral mask I was coming to know—and hate. He swiped to answer.
"Adams," he said, his voice a flat, professional monotone.
He listened, pacing a short, tight path in front of the sofa. I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest, watching him. The documentary's narrator droned on cheerfully about the mating habits of anglerfish, a bizarre soundtrack to the tension coiling in the room.
"Yes, sir. I'm aware of the timeline." A pause. His jaw tightened. "With all due respect, Captain, my previous assessment stands. The strategic value of the intelligence here far outweighs—" He was cut off. His pacing stopped. He stood stiffly, listening to whatever his CO was saying, and the set of his shoulders told me it wasn't good.
A cold dread began to pool in my stomach. This was it. The final decision. They were pulling him. Sending him to Kazakhstan or Timbuktu or wherever else the Navy decided it needed its most frustratingly competent and devastatingly handsome operatives.
He wasn't saying much. Just the occasional "Understood" and "Acknowledged," each word sounding more clipped and hollow than the last. He ran a hand over his closely cropped hair, a rare sign of agitation.
I couldn't stand it. I couldn't just sit there and watch him be taken away from me over a phone call. I uncurled myself from the sofa and padded silently to the doorway of the living room, leaning against the frame, just listening. I felt like a spy in my own home, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Sir," Clyde said, and his voice had changed. The professional deference was still there, but underneath it was a thread of pure, unadulterated steel. "I need to make my position unequivocally clear."
There was a long silence on his end. I held my breath.
"My commitment to this assignment is absolute," he continued, his voice low and deadly serious. "The asset—Troy Nash—is not just a source of intelligence. Securing his safety and well-being is my primary objective. Removing me from this post would not only jeopardize this investigation but would, in my professional opinion, constitute an unacceptable risk to a vital civilian resource."
He was fighting for me. Using every ounce of his authority and credibility to stay. For me.
He listened for another moment, and then something in his posture shifted. The tension didn't leave his shoulders, but it… changed. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I will ensure the handover is seamless once the immediate threat is neutralized." A longer pause. "Yes, sir. Adams out."
He ended the call and stood perfectly still for a long moment, his back to me, phone clenched in his hand. The silence in the room was broken only by the cheerful narrator announcing a commercial break.
I didn't move. I didn't know what to say.
Finally, he turned around. He looked tired. And angry. And then his eyes found me, leaning in the doorway, and the anger bled away, replaced by a weary resolve.
"You heard," he stated. It wasn't a question.
I nodded, my throat tight. "Are you… are you leaving?"
He crossed the room in a few quick strides until he was standing right in front of me. He didn't touch me. He just searched my face, his own expression grim. "They're reassigning the Kazakhstan op. Giving it to another team."
The relief that washed over me was so potent it made my knees weak. "Oh, thank god."
"But," he said, the word stopping my relief in its tracks. "It's a temporary stay. My CO agrees your intel is too critical to disrupt right now. But the second this Meridian case is closed, the second the threat to you is neutralized… I'm being deployed. It's not a question of if, Troy. It's when."
The words landed like a physical blow. He wasn't leaving now. But he was leaving. The reprieve was just that—a delay of the inevitable. The pain was sharper somehow, having been given a glimpse of safety only to have it yanked away.
I must have looked as devastated as I felt, because his face softened. He finally reached out, his hands coming to rest on my hips, pulling me gently toward him.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice rough. "Look at me." I did. His pale eyes were intent, earnest. "This changes nothing. My priority is you. This case. Right here, right now. That's all that matters. The rest… we'll face it when we get there. Together."
He leaned in and pressed his forehead against mine, a gesture that was quickly becoming our silent anchor. "I'm not going anywhere until I know you're safe. I promise."
I believed him. I believed in him. The future was still a scary, uncertain thing, but the present—his arms around me, his promise in my ear—was solid and real.
I let out a shaky breath and managed a small smile. "Okay," I whispered. "Together."
He kissed me then, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of frustration and fear and a fierce, determined hope. When we broke apart, the documentary was back on, showing a school of fish swirling in a beautiful, silent dance.
"Now," Clyde said, his voice returning to its normal rumble, though his hands stayed firmly on my hips. "Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"
I glanced at the TV. "I think the anglerfish was about to eat its mate."
He grinned, a real, proper grin that chased the last of the shadows from his eyes. "Romantic." He scooped me up into his arms, making me yelp in surprise, and carried me back to the sofa. "Forget the fish. I'm much more interesting."
And as he settled back onto the cushions, pulling me tightly against him, I knew with absolute certainty that he was right.