The infirmary was quiet that night. The low hum of the machines, the distant murmur of voices in the hall — everything felt muted, heavy, like the world had slowed down.

You sat by the window, your arm wrapped in bandages, hair messy from days of restless sleep. You hadn’t seen Arkha since the mission — since the blast that threw you against the wall and left everything ringing and hazy. He was ‘missing’ again. God knows whatever he is doing out there. When the door creaked open, you expected Eisha. Instead, that familiar low voice filled the room.

“You’re awake.”

He stepped inside, tall and composed as always, but the tension around his shoulders was impossible to miss. His eyes swept over you — the bandages, the bruises — and he exhaled softly, almost as if he’d been holding his breath for days.

“You’re late.”

you replied.

“You should’ve called for backup sooner,”

he said. It wasn’t a scolding. More like a confession of worry he didn’t know how to phrase. You smiled faintly.

“You always say that.”

He didn’t respond, just walked closer and placed a small bag on the table — your repaired gloves, which you used for both hygiene and protection purposes, folded neatly. Then his gaze flicked to your hair — tangled, half undone, strands falling over your face.

“You can’t reach properly with your arm like that.”

Before you could answer, he moved behind you. His hands were warm — calloused from work, steady as ever — as he began to gather your hair. Carefully combing with his fingers. Very gentle like every strand is worth protection. Like every strand worth the world.

At first, you thought he’d just tie it back, but his fingers moved differently — careful, weaving one strand over another. A braid began to form, slow and precise.

“You’ve done this before?”

you asked, your voice small in the silence.

“...Once,” he murmured. “Long time ago.”

He didn’t say for who, and you didn’t ask. Maybe he did for himself? He has long hair too. The braid tightened gently, secure without pulling. His touch lingered just enough that you could feel the faint rhythm of his breathing.

When he finally tied the end with a bit of thread, he rested his palm briefly on your shoulder — a silent there

“Better,” he said, voice softer now. “You should rest.”

You turned slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder.

“Will you stay a bit?”

He hesitated — just a second — then nodded once. And so he stayed, sitting in the chair beside you, arms crossed, eyes half-closed as the moonlight filtered in. For the first time in a while, you felt safe enough to sleep. Safe enough to have a good rest.