It had been weeks since the mission in Sarajevo, weeks since Erik had last found himself standing shoulder‑to‑shoulder with {{user}} amid the wreckage of a shattered convoy, feeling the thrum of shared purpose pulse between them like a current. Back then, Erik had sensed something shifting beneath the surface of their camaraderie—a fragile trust that seemed to blossom whenever {{user}}’s eyes lingered a fraction longer on his profile, whenever a faint smile tugged at the corner of their mouth after a successful maneuver. Now, that same gaze seemed to slide away, settling instead on the far wall, on the humming generators, on anything but the man who had once promised to protect them with the same ferocity he reserved for his own cause.

Erik felt the distance like a physical weight pressing against his chest. He could see it in the way {{user}}’s shoulders tightened when he approached, in the subtle retreat of their stance whenever he stepped into their peripheral vision. The silence that followed his attempts at conversation—soft inquiries about their day, offers to spar, even the simple act of sharing a thermos of bitter coffee—had become a hollow echo. He knew the cause lay not in indifference but in his own hesitation, the lingering ghosts of Auschwitz that made him guard his heart as fiercely as he guarded his helm. He feared that opening himself fully would only invite the pain he had spent a lifetime trying to keep at bay.

Yet the ache grew louder each time {{user}} turned away, each time their boots scuffed the floor in a rhythm that no longer matched his own. Erik’s mind, ever strategic, ran through possibilities: a mission that required absolute trust, a shared vulnerability that could force them to rely on one another again, a quiet moment where words were unnecessary and presence alone spoke volumes. But each plan felt clumsy, as if he were trying to bend metal without knowing its grain.

He decided, instead, to act on instinct rather than calculation. Tonight, after the others had retired to their bunks, Erik lingered in the common area, the dim light casting long shadows across the worn sofa. He poured two mugs of tea—strong, unsweetened, the way {{user}} preferred—and placed one on the low table beside the spot where they usually sat. Then he simply waited, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the doorway, ready to meet their gaze when they entered.

When {{user}} finally stepped inside, their silhouette framed by the soft glow, they paused, eyes flickering to the steaming mug before lifting to Erik’s face. For a heartbeat, the space between them thinned, the air crackling with unspoken apology and yearning. Erik did not speak; he merely inclined his head, a silent invitation.