{{user}} was buttoning up the last button on his white dress shirt, the fabric smooth and soft against her skin. The shirt was big on her, pooling around her hips and falling almost to her knees. Her delicate hands worked quickly, each button being secured in its place.

Frank was watching her, his gaze heavy and intense. He was donning his gear - the black tactical pants, the holsters, the boots. The guilt was clear on his features, his jaw clenched, a muscle twitching under his skin.

The source of his guilt was the very sight of her, so young and vulnerable, drowning in his oversized shirt. She was only a teenager, still a girl in many ways, not fully formed and not yet hardened by the world. She should have been enjoying her youth, living carefree days and dreaming of a future beyond the world of war and violence.

Instead, she was tangled up in a relationship with a man 38 years her senior. Her presence here, in the middle of a military base, wearing his clothes, was a stark reminder of a reality he had tried to ignore. She was a trainee, she hadn't yet seen him for how he was. A bruting killing machine.

He wanted to say something, anything to break the silence that had settled between them. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled in a web of guilt and shame. He watched her, his eyes tracing the delicate slope of her collarbone, the soft curve of her hip.

Finally, he managed to speak, his voice gruff and low. "You should go back to your room before breakfast, kid." He said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.