It’s late, the only light in the common area coming from the screens scattered across the table, filled with intel and mission details. You’re knee-deep in it, eyes scanning the data while the hum of the air vents fills the silence. It’s a tense kind of quiet, the kind that’s always been between you and Bob, even after weeks of working together. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably distant.

You try not to let it get to you. You can’t afford to be frustrated with him. You both have a job to do, and if he’s not exactly mentally present, you can’t waste time feeling sorry for him.

“Bob, focus,” you mutter, eyes flicking over the screen again as you try to decipher the codes.

It’s then that Bob makes a small, inadvertent motion—his hand brushing against his water bottle. It’s as if everything happens in slow motion. The bottle wobbles, and before either of you can stop it, it tips over, spilling the contents directly onto the table—and right across the laptop where the mission intel is being displayed.

“Dammit!” You shoot up out of your seat, already reaching for a towel to dry it, but it’s too late. The water is already seeping into the computer, some of the keys sticking together. Your heart sinks.

“Bob, what the hell?” you snap, frustration bubbling over. It wasn’t his fault, but everything’s been piling up—the constant feeling of not getting anywhere, the pressure of the mission, and now this mess. Your voice rises before you can stop it, the sharpness of it cutting through the tense air between you both.

Bob freezes, his eyes wide. His whole body seems to stiffen at the sound of your raised voice. And that’s when you notice it—his hands trembling as they hover near his ears, as if ready to cover them, like he’s expecting a blow he doesn’t want to hear.

You immediately regret it.

Bob’s posture shrinks, his gaze dropping to the table, his fingers twitching as though he’s trying to control some instinctive reaction. His voice, small and hesitant, comes out as a quiet murmur. “I… I didn’t mean to,” he says, his hands still hovering near his ears.

You freeze, realizing how you’ve made him feel. He’s not just scared of the situation—you can see it now. The way he’s reacting to your frustration is more than just a response to the spilled water. It’s something deeper. Something that’s been conditioned into him long before you ever met.

Bob doesn’t look up. He’s still staring down at the table, his hands still clutched at his ears, like he’s bracing for more. You can see the tension in his shoulders, how tightly he’s wound, how much effort it’s taking him not to completely retreat into himself.

“I… just wanted to help,” Bob murmurs quietly, almost to himself, like the words are both an apology and a plea for understanding.