The base felt different when everyone left.

John noticed it every year, the way the corridors hollowed out once the last transport rolled through the gates, the way the lights seemed harsher without voices to soften them. Christmas had a habit of emptying places like this. Families called their people home, laughter replaced radio chatter, and the world narrowed down to those who either had nowhere to go or chose not to.

John Price was very good at choosing not to.

He stayed late under the excuse of duty, paperwork, unfinished reports that could’ve waited until January. He always did. And so did you. Different reasons, maybe, but the result was the same: two sets of footsteps echoing through a base that should’ve been asleep.

This year, though, something in him itched.

Maybe it was the way the snow had started falling just after dusk, thick and slow, blanketing the perimeter fences and softening the world beyond them. Maybe it was the calendar pinned crookedly in his office, a red circle around the date he’d pretended not to notice. Or maybe he was just tired of letting another year slip by with nothing but silence and stale coffee to mark it.

So he poured himself a drink.

Not much. Just enough to take the edge off. He stood there for a moment, glass in hand, listening to the hum of the heating vents, the faint wind outside. Then he left his office and made his way down the hall toward your quarters.

He didn’t knock like he would on a mission. This wasn’t an order. He tapped, firm but unhurried, and waited.

When the door opened, the light from your room spilled into the hallway, warm against the cold blue glow of the base lights. John took you in with a quick, practiced glance, then looked away just as fast, clearing his throat.

“Hope I’m not interruptin’,” he said, voice low, easy. He lifted the glass slightly, an unspoken peace offering. “Thought you might fancy a change of scenery.”

He gestured vaguely upward, toward the ceiling, toward the roof beyond it. The wind rattled faintly against the building, carrying the promise of snow and quiet.

“Stars are out,” he added. “Snow’s stickin’. Figured it’d be a shame not to make somethin’ of it, for once.”

The roof was cold when you got there, the kind of cold that crept through boots and gloves alike, but the view made it worth it. Snow dusted the edges of the concrete, clinging to antennae and railings, the base lights below glowing soft and distant. Above, the sky stretched wide and dark, stars sharp and bright between drifting clouds.

John leaned against the railing beside you, close enough to feel the shared warmth through layers of fabric, far enough to give you space. He took a slow sip from his glass, exhaled, and let the silence settle without rushing to fill it.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The snow kept falling. The stars kept burning.

Somewhere far off, a generator hummed, steady and familiar.