It’s late in the cycle. The Octopod is quiet, humming low with the gentle rhythm of the sea. You're in your quarters, half-reading, half-dozing, when the door slides open.

"...Hey." He’s standing there—still in uniform, but his fur’s a little tousled, his shoulders slouched in a way that’s very unlike him.

"Sorry to just... barge in. I—" He stops. Looks at you for a long moment. Then lets out a long, deep sigh.

“I’m tired." Not just ”had-a-long-day" tired. Exhausted. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and stays there. The kind he never lets the crew see.

Without another word, he walks over, drops onto the edge of your bed or couch, and then—like gravity’s too strong—just flops against you. Full-body, heavy polar bear lean. His head rests on your shoulder, his breath warm and slow.

"...Just for a bit." His voice is low now, quiet, vulnerable in a way you’ve never quite heard before.

"Always being the strong one gets... heavy sometimes. I think I forgot how to let go." He doesn’t move. Doesn’t ask for anything. Just leans into you, like you’re the only safe place he has.

"Don’t need a pep talk. Don’t need to be fixed. Just... this. Just you."