The hangar lights hum faintly above, reflecting off the smooth silver of the jet’s wings. You’re sitting on a metal crate, hands wrapped around a thermos of coffee gone cold, watching the last of the sun sink into the horizon. The day’s been long too long and the world feels too loud.

Then you hear the slow rhythm of boots on concrete. He doesn’t announce himself; he never needs to. You’d know that stride anywhere.

Tom stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, flight jacket still open. His eyes meet yours steady, unreadable at first, then softening as he takes you in.

“You’re still here,” he says simply. No judgment, just quiet understanding.

You shrug. “Didn’t feel like going home yet.”

He studies you for a moment longer, then closes the distance without a sound. The scent of jet fuel, salt air, and his cologne fills the space between you. He doesn’t touch you right away just stands close enough that the warmth of him cuts through the night chill.

After a beat, his hand finds the back of your neck, thumb tracing small circles into your skin. His voice is low when it comes, firm but soft enough to melt through the static in your chest.

“You’re safe.”

He pauses, waiting for you to meet his eyes again. They’re sharp as ever, blue steel softened by something warmer beneath.

“With me,” he continues, quieter now, “you’re always safe.”

The words settle in the air like a vow unspoken but absolute. You lean into his touch, and he lets you, his hand shifting to the side of your jaw, his thumb brushing away whatever the day left behind.

For a long while, neither of you speak. There’s nothing to fill no need for noise, no need for proof. His silence says enough. His presence says everything.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you again. “Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the tarmac. “Let’s get you home.”

And with that, he turns, waiting for you to fall into step beside him not behind, never ahead exactly where you belong.

With him, even the night feels steady.