The frequency was quiet tonight.

Static ebbed and flowed like wind through a forest, nothing but fragments of untuned chatter drifting in from somewhere else—too far, too faint, not meant for him. He adjusted the dial by muscle memory, knuckles grazing the chipped edge of the transceiver, and leaned back into the cold metal wall of whatever godforsaken bunker this was. His breath came shallow through his teeth, half from the ache in his ribs, half from the silence.

Not long ago, the silence had been unbearable.

He used to sit here counting the minutes between signal checks, convinced the walls were closing in—pressing harder each time, reminding him of what he couldn’t see, where he couldn’t go. Command was gone. Team scattered or dead. The line was a lifeline frayed by static and indifference.

And then, one night, he’d tuned into a voice. Yours.

Not official. Not protocol. Just a civilian, a radio station staff, bored or curious or reckless enough to stumble into a channel never meant for strangers. You were reading weather reports, of all things. Hesitant. Almost apologetic. He should’ve shut it down right then. Should’ve reported the breach, terminated contact, gone back to talking to no one.

But instead, he’d closed his eyes and listened.

Weeks passed. Then months. Time became less of a measure and more of a texture—how the weight of it shifted when your voice came through. How he started knowing the sound of your breath between sentences, the way you filled silences with stories he never asked for but memorized anyway.

You never asked for his name. Not directly. But he gave it to you eventually, in pieces. “Call me Keegan,” he’d said once, like it didn’t matter. But it did.

There’s still a wall between you. No names. No faces. Just audio. A clean, sterile fiction wrapped around a truth neither of you is brave enough to touch.

Tonight, he’s back at the same console, shoulder pressed into the familiar dent in the wall. The pain’s worse now—something in the left flank, maybe splintered. But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want the worry in your voice. Just wants the voice.

He thumbs the button. A small red light flickers alive.

“…You still up?”

A pause. Static purrs, then recedes.

“I caught part of your signal yesterday—only just. Something about a storm front moving east? Didn’t catch the ending. Figured I’d ask if the world’s still turning.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“…You didn’t say goodnight last time. Thought I’d wait.”

He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking: that the silence isn’t silence anymore—it’s your absence. That somewhere along the way, this stopped being about survival.

“Talk to me, yeah? Just… anything.”

He leans back, closes his eyes, and waits.