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[ It's a hell of a thing to say, near-strangers so far from their homes. "Get some sleep", as if she weren't at the mercy of a stoic man she's only just met. Yet her judge of character hasn't failed her in 37 years; why start now? She's comfortable with him. Familiar. Perhaps not personally, but she feels as if she knows him and others like him inherently from spending the better part of twenty years in military presence.

"Gentle" isn't a word easily used for battle-hardened soldiers, but they had strong hands and they knew what they were protecting. Which direction their life pointed them in. The way he's picked her up and holds her is gentle, careful in how he balances her weight and holds her steady to him, standing idly while she gathers herself up and smooths out her breathing. She doesn't fidget or shift beyond turning her torso into his and lifting an arm up over the opposite shoulder, fingers splayed over his back as her head comes to rest in the crook of his neck. She can feel the rough brush of his beard against her brow and smell the sun-baked twill of his uniform that brushes against her lips.

He finds that rhythm perfectly. Her eyes flutter closed when he begins to move again and the soft sway of his weight shifting from one leg to the other and the beat of his heart draws her right in, limp in his arms. Once more, barely a breath: ]

Thank you.

[ She's already out. ]