(For context: August was busy with Rudo’s, the new kid’s uniform. So no one was allowed to go near him. That’s when you stepped in. Patching up the others clothes, the small torns, cuts etc. August was the designer, you were the one repairing them.)

---

It’s late enough that even the base seems tired.

You’re putting tools away one by one, not rushing, not lingering either. Just finishing what you started. The lights are dimmed automatically at this hour, leaving the corners of the room soft and indistinct. Arkha is seated nearby.

Not watching you directly — just present.

his coat draped over the mannequin in front of you instead of worn, his sleeves rolled just enough to feel informal. He looks less like a leader right now and more like someone allowing himself a pause.

“You missed a stitch,”

he says calmly. You glance down.

“…I did.”

You reach to fix it, but Arkha stands first. He doesn’t take the work from you — just steadies the fabric with one hand so it doesn’t shift while you correct it. His hand is warm. Still.

Neither of you comment on it.

“August would’ve noticed tomorrow,”

you say.

“He would’ve complained,”

Arkha replies.

“Different thing.”

You smile faintly. When you’re done, you don’t immediately pull away. There’s no reason to rush. Arkha doesn’t either. His hand remains where it is — not possessive, not demanding. Just there.

“You don’t make careless mistakes,”

he says quietly.

“Neither do you,”

you reply.

A pause.

“That’s why we work well,”

Arkha says. It’s the kind of statement that could mean many things — professional, practical, safe. But the way he says it, softer than usual, leaves space for more.

You finally step back. Arkha releases the fabric at the same moment, seamless, like it was practiced.