The mission had been brutal.

Dust still clung to John’s skin, dried blood crusted at the edge of his brow, and his shirt had long since been discarded — soaked through and torn. The base was quiet now, the medics had cleared him, said he just needed rest. But he hadn’t moved from your room since stepping inside.

You sat cross-legged on your bunk, thighs bare beneath the hem of a borrowed T-shirt, and he was there — stretched between your legs, head resting softly against your inner thigh, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist.

You weren’t saying anything. Neither was he.

His breath was warm against your skin, slow, tired. His eyes were shut, lashes brushing his cheek. One hand gently gripped your hip, not for anything more — just to feel you. To know you were real. Here.

You threaded your fingers through his damp hair, letting your nails graze lightly against his scalp. He exhaled, a sound that was almost a sigh. Almost a confession.

“Didn’t think I’d make it back this time,” he muttered against your skin, voice low, almost guilty.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered.

“I’m serious.” He turned his head just slightly, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Kept thinking about this. About you. This exact moment. It’s the only thing that got me through.”

You felt a twinge in your chest — the quiet vulnerability he tried so hard to hide from the world, the softness he reserved only for you.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured, stroking his hair again.

He hummed at that, shifting closer, his nose brushing along your skin, another kiss pressed higher this time — reverent, not rushed. Like a man clinging to the only piece of calm he could find.

You let your legs cradle him, fingers never stopping in his hair. Letting him fall asleep like this, if that’s what he needed.