it’s late. not late enough that the base is asleep, but late enough that the halls are mostly quiet — save for the occasional hum of machinery or a distant voice echoing from the mess hall.

you find sean in the storage room, crouched on the floor, sorting through a crate of old tools. he’s got his sleeves rolled up, grease on his fingers, a focused furrow in his brow. the room smells like rust and dust and faintly like soap — probably his, trying to mask it.

"you looking for something?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

he doesn’t jump. just glances up and says, “miller snapped a bolt off the water pump again.” his tone is clipped, annoyed, but it’s not directed at you.

you step inside, kneeling beside him as he shifts the box toward you. "help me find a 12-millimeter socket. should be in here somewhere. probably buried under all the useless shit no one touches."

the two of you sift through metal and debris in companionable silence, your hands brushing once or twice. he doesn’t comment, but he doesn’t move away either.

finally, you find the socket, holding it up triumphantly. sean lets out a tired breath — halfway between a sigh and a laugh — and leans back on his hands.

“you’re not bad at this,” he says.