Unspoken Surveillance

The first time I saw him, he wasn’t an FBI agent. He wasn’t anything, really—not yet. Just a six-foot-four Midwest boy with ginger hair, sharp blue eyes, and a presence that made it impossible to look away.

I met him on a dating app. Of all places.

Not that it was my idea.

It was Lara’s.

Lara—my best friend, my ride-or-die, the closest thing I had to family in this drifting existence I’d built for myself. She was a free-spirited Swede who had walked away from a six-figure corporate job to live on a boat and never looked back. If I ran from things, Lara ran toward them—headfirst, arms wide open, consequences be damned.

And right now? Lara’s latest mission was me.

“You have to get out there,” she announced one evening, perched on the deck of her boat, barefoot, golden-skinned, and draped in a tank top that showed off her tattoos. “Your isolation era is officially over.”

I groaned, stretching out on my own deck cushion. “I’m not isolated. I see you.”

Lara rolled her eyes. “Sweetheart, you talk to me and the guy who sells you coffee at the marina. That’s not a social life. That’s a hostage situation.”

I huffed. “I don’t need a social life. I’m fine.”

She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “You live alone on a boat, drink whiskey like it’s water, and talk about your ex like he personally invented heartbreak.”

I sat up, glaring at her. “I do not talk about my ex.”

Lara gave me a slow, pointed look. “Oh, you don’t?” She cleared her throat and did the worst impression of my voice. “‘Lara, do you think he ever really loved me?’ ‘Lara, do you think I should have left sooner?’ ‘Lara, maybe I’ll just die alone and let the sea reclaim me—’”

“Oh my God, stop!” I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” she said, tossing her phone into my lap, “is that you need to start living again.”

I glanced down at the screen. My stomach dropped. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Too late,” she sang. “I already made you a profile.”

I joined the app mostly out of exhaustion, just to get Lara off my back. A few swipes here and there, a handful of terrible first dates that reminded me exactly why I didn’t do this sort of thing, and then—

Him.

His profile was maddeningly vague. One photo—standing in the middle of an open road, hands in his pockets, staring off at something unseen.

The bio? Barely anything.

"Midwest-born. Looking forward, not back."

No jokes. No clichés. No desperate attempts to impress. Just a man who didn’t seem to care whether anyone swiped right or not.

But the photo told me more than his words did.

He was tall—really tall, probably 6’4—with ginger hair that looked just a little too long, like he was still adjusting to civilian life. He had the kind of broad-shouldered build that came from discipline, not vanity. And even though he wasn’t facing the camera directly, I knew—his eyes were sharp. Probably blue.

Everything about him screamed former military—or at least someone who had spent years learning how to stand like he belonged somewhere.

I stared at his profile longer than I should have.

And then, before I could overthink it, I sent the first message.

Meeting him in person was a whole different thing.

I expected some awkwardness, some hesitation. First dates were always like that. But when I opened my door and saw him standing there, filling the frame of my houseboat’s entrance, all those expectations dissolved.

He was even taller in person. Even broader. The kind of presence that made the small space feel suddenly smaller.

And those blue eyes? Yeah. They were dangerous.

He studied me, his gaze sweeping over me like he was cataloging every detail. Not in a way that was intrusive—just… aware. Like he was already figuring me out.

“You gonna let me in?” His voice was low, rough around the edges.

I swallowed and stepped aside. “Depends. You planning to murder me?”

He smirked. “Not tonight.”

I snorted, shutting the door behind him. “Great. That’s comforting.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating in my chest. Too close. Too warm.

We talked. Drank. I learned little about him except that he had a dry sense of humor and an infuriating ability to deflect. But somehow, it didn’t matter. The air between us was already thick with something else. Something electric.

And when he finally moved closer, when his fingers brushed against mine, I didn’t stop him.

We walked the docks for hours.

The sun slipped beneath the horizon, the water turning dark and glassy, reflecting the scattered marina lights like liquid gold.

Then he stopped.

Turned to me.

His hands slipped to my waist, fingers pressing just enough to make my pulse stutter. His voice was low, rough.

"I want to take you inside."

I should have hesitated. I didn’t.

One second, I was standing on the dock, my feet planted on solid ground. The next, he had lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me toward my home.

The door banged shut behind us.

His mouth crashed against mine before I could take a breath, his hands gripping my hips, pinning me against the wall like he had every intention of ruining me.

And I wanted him to.