Page 48 of Beneath the Surface

Dax’s mouth twitched, the corner lifting. Almost a smile. “Fair point.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Quinn found herself studying him—the hard lines of his face, etched deeper by exhaustion and stress, the tension he carried in his shoulders like a physical weight, the scars that disappeared under his rolled-up sleeves.

She’d been curious about those scars since the first day. Had noticed them when he’d reached for something or moved a certain way. They were extensive. Not just one injury, but multiple. Burns, maybe. Or shrapnel wounds.

“Can I ask about your scars?” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dax’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath the stubble. For a moment she thought he’d shut down, change the subject. Then he rolled up his right sleeve completely, his movements slow and deliberate, revealing the full extent of the damage.

The scars covered his entire forearm. Puckered skin, discolored patches in shades of pink and white, evidence of extensive trauma. Some looked like burns, the skin shiny and tight. Others like impact wounds, irregular and deep.

Quinn’s breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “From the IED you told me about,” she said softly. Not a question.

“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “The blast threw me about fifteen feet. Landed on my arm. Broke it in three places. But that wasn’t the worst part.” He stared at his forearm like he was seeing it for the first time. “Shrapnel. Bits of metal and debris from the vehicle, the donkey, the road itself. All of it embedded in my skin. Doctors spent six hours in surgery pulling pieces out.”

Quinn could see it now—the irregular patterns weren’t random. They were a map of violence, each scar a piece of something that shouldn’t have been there.

“Some pieces they couldn’t get. Too deep, too close to nerves.” Dax’s fingers traced one of the larger scars, the movement unconscious. “I can feel them sometimes. When it rains or gets cold. Little reminders.”

“Does it hurt?” Her voice was gentle.

“Not like it used to. The physical pain faded. But—” He finally looked at her, his eyes haunted. “I see O’Brien, Mueller, and MacKenzie every time I look at these scars. See them in that lead vehicle. Remember that I was supposed to be in there with them but switched at the last minute because Mueller wanted to ride up front.”

Quinn’s chest ached, her heart squeezing painfully. “So you carry them with you.”

“Every day.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “These scars? They’re the easy ones. The ones people can see.”

Quinn didn’t think. Just reached out and took his scarred hand in both of hers, her fingers gentle against the damaged skin, feeling the uneven texture.

Dax stiffened, his whole body going rigid, but didn’t pull away.

“You saved lives,” Quinn said firmly, her hands tightening around his. “Dozens of them, probably. Your friends would be proud of that.”

“Or they’d say I was trying to make up for surviving when they didn’t.” His voice was rough, raw.

“No. They’d say you honored their sacrifice by protecting others. That’s what good soldiers do. What good people do.” She squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing across his scarred knuckles. “You’re a good person, Dax. Even when you’re being grumpy and impossible.”

He looked at their joined hands, his throat working as he swallowed. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“I know you gave up your bed for me. Made me dinner. Risked your career to investigate my father’s murder. Protected me when everyone else thought I was crazy.” Quinn met his eyes, holding his gaze. “I know enough.”

Something shifted in Dax’s expression. Softened. The hard edges smoothing, his eyes warming. “You’re pretty impossible yourself, you know.”

“I’ve been told.” Her voice came out breathier than intended.

This time, Dax did smile. Small, but genuine. And God, it transformed his whole face. Made him look younger, the harsh lines easing. Less burdened.

Quinn realized she was still holding his hand. That they were sitting very close, their knees almost touching. That his eyes were more brown than black, and they were looking at her like she was something precious. Something worth protecting.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, her pulse jumping in her throat.

This was dangerous. Getting close to someone during a crisis. Mistaking gratitude and proximity for something more.

But it didn’t feel like gratitude. It felt like recognition. Like finding someone who understood.

Dax cleared his throat and gently pulled his hand back, the loss of contact leaving her palm cold. “We should get back to work.”

“Right. Yes. Work.” Quinn focused on the laptop, her fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard, trying to ignore the warmth still tingling in her palm. “Um. Where were we?”