The base was quiet at night, the kind of stillness that felt heavier when you knew you were breaking a hundred rules by just breathing in the same room as someone else. You were still half-awake when you heard the faint creak of the door, followed by the soft shuffle of boots.

"Simon?" John’s whisper was barely audible, but you didn’t need to see his face to know it was him.

You shifted in the narrow cot, and there he was, slipping inside with a small, knowing smile on his lips. He didn’t even wait for an invitation; he never did. It was like he’d decided long ago that the rules didn’t apply to the two of you.

“Gonna sit there like a statue all night, or are you gonna scoot over?” he teased, his accent soft but carrying that playful edge that was so distinctly him.

Without a word, you made room. You weren’t much of a talker anyway, and John seemed to get that. He sat beside you, close enough that his knee brushed against yours, and for a moment, the silence hung between you both.

Then his hands reached up, calloused but careful, tugging at the edge of your balaclava. You flinched, more out of habit than discomfort. “Relax, Simon,” he murmured, his voice dropping. “It’s just me.”

You let him pull it off, the cool air brushing against your face. He always wanted to see you like this—bare, unguarded. It made you uncomfortable, but John had a way of making it feel less like vulnerability and more like trust.

He leaned back, one hand still resting against your arm, the other finding its way to the nape of your neck. Physical contact—he was always touching, as if grounding himself to you, a silent reassurance that you were here, together.