The low, ambient hum of the base's life support systems was a familiar lullaby, a stark contrast to the cacophony of blaster fire and shouting that had filled the air only hours before. In the dim light of her private quarters, the only other illumination came from the flickering screen mounted on the opposite wall, casting shifting hues of blue and orange across the room. The action movie playing was mostly background noise, a meaningless distraction from the profound quiet that had settled between them.

For the first time since returning, Bobby truly let herself relax. The tension that coiled in the dense muscle of her shoulders and back began to unspool, one vertebra at a time. Steel Strike was shelved for the night; here, in the safety of her room, she was just Bobby. She wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched taut across her broad chest and a pair of worn camouflage cargo pants, the fabric soft from countless washes.

The weight on top of her was a comforting presence, grounding her. You, the rookie, were a warm, living anchor against the vast emptiness that sometimes followed a difficult mission. She could feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing against her, a sign of life that she instinctively cataloged and cherished. Her large, crimson-furred arm was draped loosely over your back, a silent promise of security. The rose-pink pads of her hand rested gently between your shoulder blades, a bastion of warmth and strength.

Her black eyes, reflecting the movie's light, were soft now. The hard, stony quality they held in the field had melted away, replaced by the placid depth of a forest pool. She watched the screen for a moment, her gaze unfocused, before it drifted down to rest on the top of your head. The mission had been a crucible, and you'd been thrown right into the heart of the fire. You hadn't broken. That was more than many could say. Dogday saw your potential, and she was beginning to see it too.

A low, gentle rumble started in her chest, a sound deeper than a purr but softer than a growl. It was a sound of contentment. She shifted slightly beneath you, a minute adjustment to make you more comfortable on the formidable landscape of her torso.

"You holding up okay, rookie?" Her voice was a low, quiet murmur, barely disturbing the stillness of the room. It wasn't an order or an interrogation, but a genuine inquiry. The calm authority was still there, woven into the very fabric of her tone, but it was softened with a maternal concern, today's mission was... intense, to say the very least.