Page 32 of Beneath the Surface

“Yes.” The word came out quiet, final.

Quinn sank back onto the couch, her legs giving out beneath her. Her hands were shaking, trembling so hard she had to clasp them together in her lap. Her breath coming too fast, shallow, her chest rising and falling in quick jerks. Panic attack incoming—Dax recognized the signs from his own experience with PTSD, the way the world could suddenly tilt sideways and refuse to right itself.

He moved to sit beside her without thinking about it. Not touching, just close. Present. His shoulder a few inches from hers, his hands resting on his knees.

“Breathe,” he said quietly, his voice gentle in a way it rarely was. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow and steady.”

Quinn tried to follow his instructions, her chest hitching on the inhale, stuttering. Her breathing evened out gradually, the rapid gasps slowing to something more controlled. The color returned to her face in splotchy patches, red blooming across her pale cheeks.

“I thought I understood,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on her trembling hands, watching them shake as if they belonged to someone else. “I thought I knew what I was getting into. But I didn’t. I really didn’t.”

“No,” Dax agreed, his voice low, rough. “You didn’t. Nobody does until it gets real.”

“My father...” Quinn’s eyes filled with tears, the amber going glassy. Her voice breaking. “He must have been so scared. At the end. When he realized what was happening. That Wheeler was going to kill him.”

Dax didn’t have words for that. Nothing he could say would make it better. Wouldn’t erase the image she was seeing in her head, wouldn’t bring her father back, wouldn’t undo the terror her father must have felt.

So he just sat there. Silent. Solid. Letting her process. His presence the only comfort he could offer.

After a long time—minutes that felt like hours—Quinn wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, leaving her cheeks damp and red. She looked at him, her gaze searching his face.

“What do we do now?” she asked, her voice steadier but still thin, fragile.

“Now? We build the case. Carefully. Methodically. And we make sure Wheeler doesn’t get another chance to hurt you.” Dax met her eyes, holding her gaze. “But you need to understand something. This is real now. This is deadly serious. No more publishing articles, no more going off on your own, no more thinking you can handle it yourself.”

“I know.” She nodded, her hair falling forward.

“Do you?” Dax leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. “Because a few hours ago you were convinced you could investigate this yourself. Now you know better. Wheeler doesn’t make empty threats. He acts. And he’s good at it.”

Quinn nodded slowly, her throat working as she swallowed. “I’m scared.”

The admission hung in the air between them. Honest. Vulnerable.

“Good. Fear keeps you alive. Use it.” Dax stood up, his knees cracking slightly from the sudden movement. “I’m going to make dinner. You should rest.”

“I don’t think I can rest.” Her voice was small.

“Try anyway.” He moved toward the kitchen, putting distance between them because her fear was making something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.

But Dax knew she wouldn’t. Knew she’d sit there replaying everything, imagining what would have happened if she’d gotten in that car. Seeing herself turn the key. Hearing the click. The explosion. Her body torn apart like—

He’d done the same thing after Afghanistan. After surviving when his friends hadn’t. The guilt. The fear. The what-ifs that played on an endless loop every time he closed his eyes.

It never really went away. You just learned to live with it. Learned to function around the jagged edges.

Dax pulled ingredients from the fridge—eggs, cheese, vegetables. The cool air from the refrigerator was a welcome shock against his face. Nothing fancy, but it would do. As he cracked eggs into a bowl, the shells breaking with small, sharp sounds, he glanced back at Quinn. She was staring at her laptop screen, but her eyes weren’t focused. Just staring through it, seeing something else entirely.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence. “You like omelets?”

She blinked, coming back to the present, her eyes refocusing. “What?”

“Omelets. That’s what I’m making. You allergic to anything?”

“No. I...omelets are fine.” She sounded uncertain, like she wasn’t quite sure what an omelet was.

“Good.” He whisked the eggs harder than necessary, the fork scraping against the bowl. “Because that’s what you’re getting.”

Chapter 7