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Morning at RED Base hit like a brick to the face.
No alarms, no gentle wake-up music — just the metallic clang of someone (probably Demo) dropping a wrench in the garage and a low, surly growl of someone else (definitely Heavy) arguing about coffee beans in the kitchen.
Red groaned into her pillow, kicking blindly under the covers. Her foot hit something solid and warm — something that yelped.
“Ow — jeez, Red! Ya got weapons on those feet or what?”
She cracked one bleary eye open. Jeremy was sprawled next to her, half-off the mattress, bare-chested and tangled up in the stolen sheet like a fish in a net. His hair stuck up at wild angles, and there was a pillow crease stamped diagonally across his face.
God, he was beautiful.
God, he was ridiculous.
Red grunted and flopped a lazy hand onto his forehead. “Bedhead.”
“Style,” he corrected indignantly, trying to tame it with one hand and only making it worse.
She snorted — a soft, sleepy sound — and shoved the blankets down. The morning air bit at her skin; she was wearing one of Jeremy’s boxers and a grey tank top that had seen better days, but everything smelled like him: soap and sweat and cheap cologne.
Jeremy caught her wrist as she tried to climb out of bed, tugging her back down into the warm crater they’d made in the mattress.
“Five more minutes,” he mumbled against her hair. “S’cold.”
“You’re half a furnace,” she muttered. “And we got missions today, remember?”
Jeremy groaned like she’d physically wounded him.
“Ugh. You’re cruel. You’re evil. I trusted you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Red peeled herself free with a laugh, kicking off the blankets. She padded barefoot toward the sink at the far end of the shared quarters, snagging one of his wrinkled shirts off the floor and tugging it over her head as she went. It was stupidly big on her — swallowing her whole — and when Jeremy caught sight of it, he made a soft wounded noise in the back of his throat.
“You’re doin’ it again,” he accused, flopping dramatically face-down into the pillows.
“Doing what?”
“Being obnoxiously hot. I got rights, y’know.”
Red grinned to herself and grabbed a toothbrush.
Behind her, she heard Jeremy stumble up, still whining under his breath, and a second later he was elbowing in next to her at the sink — grabbing his own brush with a sleepy grumble.
Their shoulders bumped.
Red stuck her tongue out at him in the mirror.
Jeremy retaliated immediately by flicking a handful of cold water at her side.
“Hey!” she spluttered, half laughing, half choking on toothpaste.
“Battle’s on now, sweetheart,” Jeremy said smugly, mouth full of foam.
Things devolved embarrassingly fast: a badly-aimed splash war, Red nearly knocking over the soap dish, Jeremy slipping on the wet tile and dragging them both down into the puddle they’ve created on the floor.
It was stupid and childish.
And so much fun.
Eventually, they staggered upright, breathless and dripping, Red smacking Jeremy lightly across the chest with a towel she proceeded to lay on the floor, mopping up the water.
“You’re the worst,” she said fondly.
“You’re the luckiest,” he corrected, flashing a toothpaste-streaked grin.
The kitchen was already alive by the time they stumbled out: Demo and Engineer arguing in thick accents about engine parts, Olivia (Pyro) humming cheerfully while making a stack of pancakes big enough to choke a horse. Medic stalked through shirtless and half-awake, cradling a mug of black coffee like it was the last precious artifact on Earth.
“Morning,” Red said, trying not to laugh at the chaos.
“Ja. Looks like it.” Medic muttered blearily, disappearing into the hallway.
Jeremy slid in behind her, looping his arms lazily around her waist and dropping his forehead against the back of her neck. She felt the scratch of his hair, the warm weight of him.
“Mmm, smells good,” he mumbled into her skin.
“You smell like wet dog,” Red said, elbowing him lightly.
“Mean,” he said without shame.
Red staggered toward the coffee machine — an ancient, jury-rigged monstrosity that made more noise than a jet engine. Red tried to pour herself a cup with one hand while fending Jeremy off with the other as he nuzzled shamelessly at her neck.
“Jeremyyy,” she whined, laughing. “I’m making coffee, you menace.”
“Multitask,” he said, stealing a kiss just under her jaw.
“That’s not how multitasking works,” she grumbled — but tilted her head anyway, letting him get away with it.
Scout kissed the corner of her mouth next. Her cheek. Her jawline.
Tiny, lazy, greedy kisses.
Red batted at him with the coffee pot.
The rest of the team started drifting through like migrating birds: Heavy clomping past in socks, Spy materializing to steal exactly one pancake before vanishing again, Soldier yelling about “reveille” and “preparedness” at full volume despite being in polka-dot pajama pants.
It was a miracle the base functioned at all.
It was a miracle they hadn’t accidentally blown themselves up yet.
But Red wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Here — in the sleepy mornings, the stolen shirts, the messy hair and bad coffee and shameless affection — she felt… steady. Safe.
Loved.
She leaned back against Jeremy’s chest while sipping her mug, feeling the slow, steady thump of his heart under her back.
And for a second, the world was quiet.
Which, naturally, meant it couldn’t last.
The mission alarm shrieked through the base like a banshee.
Red nearly dropped her coffee. Jeremy swore loudly and bolted upright, scrambling back to his dorm for his boots.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME,” Soldier bellowed from somewhere upstairs. “PREPARE FOR COMBAT! THE ENEMY APPROACHES!”
Demo, still mid-bite of pancake, stuffed the whole thing into his mouth and lunged for his grenades.
Spy sighed heavily from behind a newspaper. “Merde.”
Red grabbed her utility belt off the back of a chair, still in Jeremy’s oversized shirt and one sock, and Jeremy skidded across the kitchen floor trying to shove one leg into his pants without falling over.
They exchanged one wild, laughing look — half-dressed, half-caffeinated, hearts pounding.
“Wanna race?” Jeremy said, grinning crookedly.
“Loser buys drinks tonight,” Red shot back.
And then they were sprinting for the door — messy, chaotic, half-dressed and all-in — together.