The camp is winding down when you find him.

Generators hum low in the background, the sun dipping orange behind the trailers. Men are laughing somewhere down the row, boots thudding, music playing faint and tinny through an open door.

BR’s sitting on the steps of his trailer, elbows on his knees, shirt still dusty from the day. He looks tired the good kind. The honest kind.

He spots you and straightens immediately.

“There you are,” he says, voice low, calm.

He stands, crossing the distance in a few easy strides. One hand comes to your hip, warm and familiar, grounding you like it always does. His thumb presses there once a quiet check-in.

“You eat?” he asks.

Before you can answer, he’s already reaching back for a plate he set aside foil-wrapped, still warm. He hands it to you without ceremony, like it was always meant to be yours.

“Sit,” he murmurs, nodding toward the steps.

You do. He settles behind you, legs bracketing yours, arms folding around your waist. His chin rests lightly on your shoulder, just enough for him to see what you’re doing just enough to let you feel him there.

Long silence. Comfortable. Easy.

“Rough day,” he admits quietly. “But it’s better now.”

The camp noise fades a little. His grip firms not tight, just certain.

“You good?” he asks, brushing his thumb along your side. When you nod, he hums softly.

“Good,” he says. “Stay here a bit.”

No rush. No expectations. Just the quiet he saves for you.