It was late.

The base was quiet. The kind of quiet that only settled in after long ops and longer nights — when the halls thinned out and the common room lights hummed low. Ghost sat on the worn sofa in the corner, legs stretched out, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that doesn't quite reach the bones until you're still.

Beside him, she sat curled in a blanket — bare arms resting on her knees, tired but still awake. The silence between them was familiar now. Comfortable. Like a routine they didn't have to speak aloud.

His glove was off. Just one. The right.

And his fingertips were moving — slow and absentminded — against the skin of her forearm.

He wasn't really thinking about it. Not consciously. Just drawing soft, looping patterns. Circles. Lines. A slow drag from her wrist to her elbow and back again. Gentle, featherlight pressure.

She didn't stop him.

Didn't even flinch when he switched direction and traced something smaller — maybe a shape. Maybe a letter.

His gaze stayed on the TV across the room, where some old war film played muted and ignored. But his touch never paused. Like he was grounding himself through her skin. Like that little patch of warmth between them was the only part of the day he could actually feel.

He said nothing.

Didn't smile. Didn't tease.

Just kept tracing.

Their shoulders were pressed together. At some point, her head had tilted toward him slightly, resting just shy of his bicep. He hadn't moved away.

Friends.

That's what they were.

But no friend touches you like that — soft, slow, like the shape of your arm is something sacred. Like his hands remember you in places his mouth won't speak of.

He didn't look down. Didn't explain himself.

Just drew another quiet line down her skin.