It was past 2AM. The base was silent at night. Too silent.

You padded barefoot into the dimly lit kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, the hum of the fridge the only sound. Just needed water, maybe something stronger. Anything to quiet your mind enough to sleep.

But you weren’t alone.

John Walker stood at the counter, back turned, dressed in nothing but sweatpants and a T-shirt that clung to his frame. His hair was tousled like he’d been tossing in bed for hours, and his hand gripped the edge of the sink just a little too tight.

You froze in the doorway, watching him in the low blue light of the fridge. He hadn’t noticed you yet. His shoulders were tense, breathing shallow. Like he’d just been jolted out of something.

You could guess what. You’d read the file. Lemar Hoskins. Killed right in front of him.

The nightmares weren’t just rumor. They lingered in the way he barely slept, the way his jaw locked during debriefs. The way he buried grief beneath anger and pride.

You cleared your throat softly. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

He jerked slightly, eyes snapping to you. For a second, they were wide—startled, vulnerable. Then, like muscle memory, the walls slid back into place. He gave you a once-over, trying to play it off.

“Didn’t know you walked around the tower barefoot. Dangerous.” His voice was scratchy from sleep… or maybe the dream.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Didn’t know you haunted the kitchen like a ghost at 2AM.”

He looked down at the glass in his hand. “Didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

“You didn’t. Just got thirsty.”

The silence stretched.

You could’ve walked past him. Pretended he was just another night owl with insomnia. But something about the way his fingers trembled slightly against the glass stopped you.

“You okay?” you asked gently, though you knew the answer.

He didn’t answer. Just stared down into his drink like it held ghosts.

You noticed his hands were trembling. Just slightly. His knuckles white around the glass.

He let out a low exhale, something between a scoff and a laugh. “You ever dream about someone you couldn’t save?” he asked suddenly, not looking at you. “Wake up feelin’ like you’re still in the fight—like you could’ve pulled them back if you’d just… done something different?”

You were quiet for a moment, heart tight. “Yeah,” you whispered.

He finally looked at you then. There was something raw in his expression. Not just grief—guilt. Guilt etched into the hard lines of his face. Sleepless nights stacked under his eyes.

“I see him sometimes,” John muttered. “Lemar. Standing right there. Or calling my name.” He rubbed a hand down his face, visibly frustrated. “But I can’t answer. I never get to answer.”

The silence stretched again. “I keep seeing the way his body dropped.”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. “You don’t have to explain.”

He scoffed, more at himself than you. “Thought I was past it. Got the shield taken. Got reassigned. Got the ‘second chance.’” He said that part like it was a joke. “Still can’t shut my damn brain off.”

You stepped forward slowly, not touching him yet. Just close enough.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you said. “Not here. Not tonight.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours. Less guarded now. More him.

For once, he didn’t fight it. “I hate how easy that is with you,” he muttered.

You allowed a small smile. “Why? Because you don’t get to be the tough guy?”

“No,” he said softly. “Because part of me wants to just fall into it.”

You reached out and took the glass gently from his hand before setting it aside.

“You don’t have to fall,” you murmured. “Just… sit.”

He did.

At the kitchen table, under the low light and silence of 2:19AM, you sat with him. No ranks. No orders. Just two people not sleeping, and the distance between you finally starting to close.