The base is quiet at 2:13 a.m.—too quiet for someone whose head won’t stop spinning. The barracks hum with AC and distant footfalls. But your heart? Loud. Heavy.

So you walk. Not because you should, but because you have to.

You knock once. Soft. Almost guilty.

His door opens immediately.

Tom Kazansky stands there in grey sweats and a tight black tee, hair mussed like he just woke up—but his eyes? Alert. Focused. On you.

He doesn’t ask questions. He just steps aside.

You enter, and the door clicks shut behind you. For a moment, it’s just the two of you. Low light. His steady breath. Your pulse still racing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep and concern. He doesn’t move to touch you yet—he waits. Always waits until you lean in first.

You do.

And then his arms are around you—strong, grounding. The kind of hug that feels like armor. The kind that makes your walls crumble in silence.

Tom rests his chin lightly on your head. “You don’t have to talk,” he says softly. “Just let me be here.”

You feel the tension start to uncoil in your chest.

He doesn’t offer solutions. Just safety. Just warmth. Just Tom.

And somehow, that’s everything.