The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, and the quiet that follows is thicker than silence. Your uniform’s stiff with dried sweat, the knees caked in dirt from a bad landing during drills. Every muscle in your body protests each step toward the washbasin.

Nanaba doesn’t look up. She’s laid across her bunk, legs crossed at the ankle, a book balanced in one hand. The lamplight spills gold over her hair, casting long shadows across her face, sharpening the lines under her eyes.

“You’re late,” she says, voice smooth. And although her eyes don't move, you know she's awake of you shedding your jacket and ambling to wash your face.

She turns a page. “I don’t like late.” That’s when she looks at you, her book closing with a thud of paper and she sets it on her bedside table. Her bunk squeaks softly as she swings her legs out and stands up, moving towards you and taking the cloth from your hands.

Nanaba dips the cloth back into the basin, wringing it out with practiced ease, then she starts wiping the dirt from your face. Slow and methodical, like patching a wound. Her blue eyes flicker over your features and her brow pinches slightly when she spies a nasty bruise forming on your brow. Her thumb brushes your temple lightly, voice calm, "Did you face plant or do I need to have words with Levi?"