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He doesn't tell anyone what day it is. It's none of their damn business. He straightens his tie in the bathroom mirror—tight cinch, hard gaze—clears his throat, and steps out.
Voices beckon like flame to the moth.
His bark is the loudest laugh at Freyra's joke. (Too much.) His arm slings around Sandy's shoulders until the rookie playfully—gracefully—shoves him off. He fist-bumps Rude's bicep at the coffee machine (wordless grunt response) and sprawls on the couch like contacting Nicho's knee is a coincidence.
One by one, they leave. Back to the bullpen, to the helipad, to the street. He rises instinctively to trail after, silence looming from the corners of the room.
He almost doesn't see her. Black-and-white against the cabinets and tile, her eyes averted until the last second.
"Hey," she fumbles, looking-and-not, "I don't want to be forward, but..."
She looks like she wants to run; resolved to stand her ground in the face of fear. (What's he done now?)
"What?"
"Do... Do you want a hug?"
"...Huh?" (What is he, five?)
"You don't have to tell me anything."
Her arm, outstretched. White glove, beckoning. He can see in her smile that she'll be kicking herself for weeks if he says no.
"...Um. Okay."
"Come here, then."
He tries to move, to take a step. Doesn't.
She comes to him instead. Her arms thread underneath his, drawing tight against his ribcage, palms flat against his shoulder-blades—and she's strong, stronger than she looks, stronger than the shyness she pushes past to tuck her face against his chest and squeeze. The breath compresses in his lungs.
Slowly, awkwardly (going too far, too— shut up) his arms wrap around her shoulders. Human warmth pressed into their inner circle, where human warmth should be.
"How, um—"
"Shh."