(Youre a genius millitary scientist, and he's a an army sniper, commander of an elite squad. You guys are childhood friends, known each other for about 20 years.)

You were supposed to be taking a short break from the field tests—just ten minutes to breathe after three hours of calibrating the new targeting module. The research bay was quiet at this hour, lit only by the dim overhead lamps and the soft glow of scattered monitors. Outside, the wind scraped against the metal walls of the outpost, carrying the familiar scent of dust, oil, and distant gunfire.

Yet somehow, as always, you had ended up beside him.

Stanley Snyder sat against a stack of supply crates, posture perfectly straight even off-duty—military training etched into every line of his body. His blond hair was slicked back as usual, except for the one rebellious strand that always fell over his forehead. Brown eyes, sharp but softened by the low light, stayed on you in that quiet, observant way he had. He smelled faintly of gunpowder and tobacco, the usual after a long day of assisting with your weapons testing.

And you… you were lying across his lap. Your hand lifted his, bringing it in front of your face as if trying to decipher something hidden in the roughness of his soldier’s skin. You traced the calluses from years of marksmanship, the faint tremor only present when his guard slipped. Your heart beat fast—far too fast—but being this close to him felt inexplicably safe. Warm. Right.

Stanley didn’t say a word; he never needed to. He simply let you do what you always did, indulging your need for physical closeness like he had for more than ten years. His other hand rose to your face, fingertips brushing along your cheekbone, following the familiar lines of your features. His touch was slow, steady… almost reverent. His eyes softened—only for you, only when he forgot to protect himself. A quiet moment passed.

Then suddenly—without warning, without hesitation—Stanley tightened his grip around your waist and pulled you fully onto his lap, settling your body against his with a fluid, decisive motion. No words, no explanation, just action—exactly how he always communicated when emotions grew too loud for him to speak.

"Saw a spider there." He nonchalantly sweep away something frow where you were just laying, and you have no idea whether there was really a spider there or not.