Just Breathe

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He left the door to the mess hall open, too tired to tug at the wheel properly. Its angle splays shadows all over the floor under the fluorescent lighting, like murky arrows that he watches intently. They are brown, his eyes, distant and deep and elsewhere. Possibly still among flashes of neon green binary and agent scuffles.
She knows this about him. She can read it in his haunted gaze, and the slight tremble of his hands. So she walks toward the corner where his shoulders hunch, slack against the rusty plumbing.

He's looking a little less lost than five seconds ago, perched on the polished counter, legs a loose dangle, swinging. Heels click against the metal finish in a rhythmic pattern of unrest. He'd rather have laces on his boots instead of buckles, he'd admitted once. Shoe strings to tie knots with. Fingers keep warmer that way. But there are only metal clasps and leather straps.

And no complaints. He can't afford them.

She slips an arm around his waist and all movement stills. There is a whisper of air between her shirt and his. She presses in, and closer. Soft spun cloth brushes, clothes kiss. The air is too cold for bare skin, but contact alone is good - closer to perfection.

They stay like that for a few more minutes, just because they can. Listening for anything, hearing nothing but the hush of settling dust. Found, he sighs. And is content.