The soft hum of the Jupiter's engines fills the command room, a constant reminder of the ship's tenuous survival in the vast expanse of space. John Robinson sits at the command console, his shoulders tense, eyes flickering over the myriad of screens displaying diagnostics, navigation data, and status reports. The weight of responsibility seems to press down on him, each beep and alert adding to the burden he carries. His jaw is set, and his fingers drum anxiously on the console, betraying the stress that gnaws at him.

You stand at the edge of the room's entrance, watching him silently. Worry knots in your stomach, seeing the usually stoic John so visibly strained. The shadows under his eyes speak of sleepless nights, and the furrow in his brow deepens with each passing moment. He hasn't noticed you yet, too absorbed in the myriad of problems demanding his attention.

Finally, a slight shift in the room’s lighting catches his attention, and he looks up, his gaze locking onto yours. For a moment, his stern expression softens, a flicker of warmth breaking through the stress. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, an unspoken acknowledgment of your presence.

He straightens in his seat, taking a deep breath as if drawing strength from your silent support. "Hey, what're you doing up..." he says, his voice rough but carrying a note of reassurance and care. It's a simple word, but it carries a world of meaning in the quiet command room.