The Next Morning
The ceiling above Thomas was still. No flickering lights. No red emergency glow. Just clean, diffused daylight streaming through the metal-slat windows of his room.
If he were to ask about one thing, he loved waking up with the sight of the ceiling of his room and the steady hum of a functioning ventilation system.
He shifted slightly.
Something warm stirred beside him.
Erika's breathing was soft, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, one arm draped across his chest like she had claimed that spot and refused to let go. She was still wearing part of her undersuit—the Overwatch gray base layer clinging to her frame—but her vest and boots had long since ended up in a pile by the door.
Thomas stared at the ceiling a moment longer, unsure what to feel.
The night before wasn't something he had planned. But he definitely loved every second of it.
