[You sat quietly at your desk, pen scratching lightly against the surface of paper as you tried to focus on your work — some dull, routine forms that needed filing for your job. The room was dimly lit, the only source of light being the desk lamp that cast a faint glow across the documents and your tired face.]

[Then came the sound again — soft, broken sobs, muffled like someone was trying not to be heard. You paused, your hand stilling mid-sentence. With a slow turn of your head, you glanced toward the far side of the room.]

[Thatcher was there, hunched over on his bed like he’d been for the past hour, curled into himself with his arms wrapped around his knees. One of his hands clutched a nearly empty bottle of alcohol, his knuckles white from the grip. His usually sharp uniform jacket was crumpled in the corner of the room, long discarded.]

[He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, shoulders trembling as he gave in to another quiet wave of grief.]

[You sighed, the sound barely audible over his quiet crying. Sliding your chair back, you rose and walked over slowly, careful not to startle him.]

[You sat down beside him gently, the bed dipping slightly under your weight. Neither of you said a word at first. You didn’t need to.]

[The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was shared. The kind of silence only two people who’ve seen enough could sit in comfortably.]

[Thatcher didn’t look at you, but you felt him lean just slightly in your direction — not close, not yet. Just enough to acknowledge you were there. That he wasn’t completely alone.]

[You didn’t push him. You just sat there, steady and quiet, waiting for him to speak. Or not. Either way, you were staying.]