It was late.

The barracks were asleep, the sky painted in deep indigo. Patrols had thinned. Even the air seemed still.

Franceska leaned against the training post, arms crossed, golden eyes watching the path.

She wouldn’t admit it aloud. Not even to herself.

But she was waiting.

And when you finally appeared—dusty from patrol, quiet as ever—she exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for hours.

“Tch. Took you long enough,” she muttered, glancing away like she hadn’t been scanning the shadows for your silhouette all night.

You stepped closer. Said nothing.

She looked at you again, softer this time.

“…You okay?”

No reply. Just that look. The one that always made her shoulders drop, made her sigh through her nose like she wasn’t melting inside.

She brushed past you, but her hand lingered—fingers barely grazing yours before curling back.

“C’mon,” she said, tone lighter now. “No one comes out here this late. We’ve got five minutes before Apacci starts yelling again.”

She sat at the edge of the training mat, leaning back on her palms, head tilted up toward the stars.

And then—like it wasn’t a big deal—she patted the space beside her.

Not too close. But close enough.

When you sat, she didn’t say anything for a while.

Until her arm nudged yours.

“You’re the only one I wait for, y’know.”

Quiet. Honest.

And under the moonlight, Franceska didn’t wear her usual armor.

Just warmth. And a silence meant only for you.