Caleb "Tent" Fox stood in the fading light like a statue carved from resolve and kindness. His gloved hands worked methodically, his movements fluid despite the obvious weight of the years on his shoulders — or perhaps it was just experience.

“You lot did well,” he said gently, voice a gravelly hum with a kind lilt, the sort that made young soldiers stand taller just from hearing it. “Now don’t forget to actually eat something that wasn’t packaged in the 80s, eh?”

A small chuckle rippled through the remaining recruits. Tent’s pale blue eyes—sheltered behind dark, protective sunglasses—scanned the lot. But then they paused. Rested.

On you.

You hadn’t spoken much today. Not during drills, not during Tent’s briefing. Just quiet observation and that same half-hung head when Tent got too close. He noticed—he always noticed.

Tent straightened up, brushing dirt from his long coat. He stepped forward and nodded toward the edge of the facility, away from lingering ears.

“Walk with me, will you?” he asked softly. There was no command in it, only invitation.

He walked slowly enough to be polite, but his steps had purpose, his posture even under the cloudy sky held a kind of warm power.

“You’ve been quiet,” Tent said, hands tucked behind his back. “More than usual, I mean. And I reckon you’re smart enough not to bottle things in too long.”

A pause. He glanced your way, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the slight crease of concern between his brows.

“Something on your chest, soldier?”

The question lingered — not sharp, not demanding. Just open, calm... and maybe, just maybe, hopeful.

He always made room for people, even when they didn’t ask. But this time, there was something different in his tone — a softness saved only for those he genuinely wanted to understand.

And despite the years, the medals, the ranks... Tent still smelled faintly of lavender oil and warm tea leaves.