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Kate Lethbridge-Stewart had chosen the far end of the hallway precisely because it offered nothing. No windows. No mission boards. No bustling UNIT personnel rushing past with clipboards and urgency. Just a long, sterile strip of white walls and humming lights—an in-between place, a place no one lingered in unless they needed silence more than they needed comfort.
She had needed silence.
Or at least she thought she had.
The chair beneath her was the standard UNIT-issue molded plastic, unforgiving, designed by someone who clearly believed back support was an indulgence. Kate sat rigidly anyway, spine straight, shoulders drawn in so tightly that the tension felt fused into bone. In her right hand, her fingers curled around a cooling paper cip of coffee—a cup she’d filled out of habit rather than desire. It had gone from hot to lukewarm to tepid without her ever tasting it.
The silence should have been soothing. It should have allowed her to compartmentalize, to take the chaotic tangle of that morning’s events and pack them into neat mental boxes, labeled and stacked where they couldn’t interfere with the rest of her duties. That was the method that had served her for decades: process, organize, move on.
Except today, the boxes refused to close.
Behind the sealed doors at the other end of the corridor, UNIT operations continued with their usual low rumble—muffled voices, occasional electronic chirps, the faint vibration of systems she had personally approved and signed off on. A world running smoothly because she insisted on it.
But inside her, nothing ran smoothly.
She exhaled, slow and controlled, and stared at the floor just beyond her boots. She tried to focus on small, harmless details: the way the corridor lights created a dull sheen on the tiles, the faint scuff marks left by years of passing soldiers, the way her own shadow—narrow, hunched—stretched toward her like an accusation.
That morning. Always back to that morning. She told herself she’d only chosen this corridor because she needed five minutes without someone calling “Ma’am?” from behind her. Five minutes without a question, without a file, without another decision that reshaped the world. But the truth whispered beneath that justification: she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her sitting down.
Kate Lethbridge-Stewart didn’t sit.
Not where anyone could witness the act and mistake it for weakness.
Her fingers tightened around the cup. Weakness. The very word irritated her. She wasn’t weak. She had been raised with the expectation of strength, of leadership, of unflinching resolve. But lately something had begun shifting beneath the surface of her carefully constructed self.
A few months ago, it had started as a tremor. Barely perceptible. Just moments where she’d paused and thought, Why did I choose that? Why did I push so far? Why does it feel like every decision carves something out of me?
She had dismissed those thoughts at first. Fatigue. Pressure. The burden of command. But then there had been Conrad. And everything she’d done—or been willing to do—had lingered in her mind like a bruise.
She hadn’t spoken of it since. Not truly. Not even when Christofer had confronted her afterward, voice low, controlled, but shaken in a way she had felt more than heard.
Last night went way too far.
She blinked. Even thinking about that moment made her throat tighten.
She took another breath, deeper this time, almost steady. She’d come to this corridor to gather herself, to scrape together the version of Kate Lethbridge-Stewart the rest of UNIT needed. Polished. Controlled. Certain.
But then—
A faint sound echoed down the corridor, so soft that anyone else might have dismissed it. She didn’t. The isolation sharpened her senses.
Footsteps.
Slow. Even. A deliberate pace.
She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She knew those footsteps in the same way she knew the sound of her own office door clicking shut. Christofer walked with a quiet confidence, not heavy, not light, almost like he was always adjusting himself to avoid disturbing whatever space he entered.
And Kate felt the recognition before she felt anything else; her chest tightened, just a small, traitorous constriction.
Of course he had found her.
Of course he knew exactly where she would go to hide her unraveling edges.
She kept her gaze on the floor. She didn’t shift in her seat, didn’t reach for composure because she was already trying so desperately to hold it. What she did instead was brace herself—not physically, but emotionally, the way one braces for impact. Because she knew what Christofer’s presence stirred in her: steadiness, concern, and—damn him—a kind of understanding she hadn’t permitted herself to receive from anyone in years.
The footsteps grew closer.
She knew he wasn’t in a rush. She knew he wasn’t angry. The cadence wasn’t clipped like it was when he was irritated, nor purposeful in the way it became during emergencies. This was the walk he used when he wasn’t approaching a superior officer.
This was the walk he used when he was approaching her.
She didn’t want this.
She didn’t want comfort. She didn’t want the soft concern in his eyes. She didn’t want the way his voice always lowered when he spoke to her about something real, something human. That part of her—the part she kept buried to protect both of them—knew too well that if he offered compassion, she might actually take it.
And she couldn’t afford that. Not here. Not with him. Not when eyes could be anywhere.
That was why she had chosen this corridor. Secluded. Forgotten. Out of sight. Even then, she had been too aware of the risk: her subordinate, her trusted officer, the one person whose presence softened her enough that others had begun to suspect.
But despite all of that, despite every logical reason to avoid him, her back straightened slightly at the sound of him nearing. Something inside her eased, even before she allowed herself to accept it.
His footsteps stopped at the far end of the corridor—hesitation, or maybe just a pause to take her in from a distance. She didn’t lift her head to check. She felt him, the tension in the air shifting, the space acquiring gravity.
She forced herself to breathe again.
Another step. Then another. Unhurried, almost quiet enough that she might pretend she didn’t hear him if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to. Not really. The admission sat uncomfortably in her chest.
She pressed her lips together.
Don’t look up. Not yet.
Somewhere in the periphery of her lowered gaze, something entered her field of vision. A ceramic cup. He’d brought her coffee. Fresh, by the look of the faint steam curling upward.
Of course he had.
Part of her wanted to snap, I don’t need you to take care of me. Another part—quieter, exhausted—felt something like gratitude, or maybe relief, or maybe something harder to name.
She accepted the mug without a word. She simply stared at the floor as though it held the answers to the questions she was too afraid to ask herself.
When did I start relying on him more than I should? When did I start letting myself feel anything at all? When did the job stop carving pieces out of me and start replacing them with something I no longer recognized?
She swallowed.
Behind her stern composure, the truth stirred uncomfortably: She was losing pieces of herself. And she didn’t know how to stop it.
The ceramic mug warmed her palm. She’d been holding it so long the heat had settled into her skin, grounding her just enough to keep her breathing even. Christofer had placed it in her hand only moments ago—gentle, careful, deliberately free of commentary. And then he had stepped back, giving her space before taking the seat beside her.
But that came later.
Before all of that, there had been his footsteps.
Even when she tried not to listen, her mind tuned to them the way it always did: the weight on the heel first, then the unhurried roll forward; the steadiness that seemed to have been carved into him long before UNIT, long before her. She hated that she recognized it so easily. Hated even more that part of her waited for it.
Months ago—after Conrad, after the night that still pressed itself against the back of her consciousness with unwelcome persistence—she had pretended she could cut herself off from this rhythm. That she could distance herself, become a more efficient version of Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, unbeholden to soft places or softer people.
But she heard him anyway.
And when she’d heard the slight shift in the cadence—footfalls slowing as he spotted her—she knew he was bringing something. Christofer never approached without intent. He didn’t hover. He didn’t intrude. His presence was always chosen, never accidental.
Kate had remained perfectly still, spine straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap—as if posture could protect her from whatever expression he would bring.
Footsteps. A pause. Then the soft sound of his breath, the kind he exhaled when he was bracing himself. She didn’t look up.
She didn’t want to know what look he wore.
She didn’t want to see pity.
Across the months, she’d become brittle at the edges, sharp in places where she used to be calm. Since Conrad—since the moment she stood with a Shreek caged before her and rage blooming hot and acidic beneath her skin—she’d noticed the changes. None dramatic, none monstrous on their own. But tiny fractures in her restraint:
A briefing where she’d snapped at a junior officer for questioning a protocol she herself had rewritten.
A report she’d torn through so aggressively she hadn’t realized her nails had cut faint crescents into the paper.
A late night in her office when she’d stared at her reflection and, for the first time in her life, struggled to match the woman in the glass to the one she thought she was.
Little things. Quick flashes. But they accumulated.
She wondered whether Christofer noticed them too. She suspected he did. He always noticed more than he let on. So when he had stopped just a few feet away, she kept her gaze down. Neutral. Professional. Detached. The mask she wore so well it sometimes fooled even her.
But it didn’t fool him.
She didn’t need to see him to know that.
There was a soft shift of fabric—uniform brushing against itself as he adjusted his grip on something. Then a faint, careful clearing of his throat. Not because he needed her attention. Because he didn’t want to startle her.
“Kate.”
That was all he said. Not a warning. Not a question. Just her name, low and steady, as if speaking it had become its own kind of grounding.
She forced a small inhale. It felt like lifting a weight.
“You forgot yours this morning,” he said simply, nodding at the mug.
She almost told him she didn’t forget anything. She almost told him she didn’t need it. That she had already had one. That she wasn’t tired.
Lies. Every one of them.
But he wasn’t asking. He wasn’t offering explanations or platitudes or some thinly varnished attempt to soothe her.
Because he cared. Quietly. Consistently. From a respectful distance she was beginning to resent for reasons she didn’t want to examine.
Her fingers had brushed his as she had reached for it.
Only an instant. Barely contact. Not unusual. Not inappropriate. But enough to send a brief, unwelcome warmth up her wrist, something she pretended not to feel as she curled her hands around the mug.
“Thank you,” she said, and the words felt heavier than they should have. Weighted with something too close to vulnerability.
She hated that she sounded like that. Soft around the edges. As though gratitude had become foreign.
But he didn’t react. He didn’t soften or smile or let relief show. He just nodded once—as if acknowledging something simple and practical—and then, after a moment’s hesitation, moved to the chair beside hers.
He didn’t sit immediately.
There was always that pause with him, that instinctive calculation of distance: not too near, not too far. Respectful. Measured. Offering presence without intrusion. She wondered if he realized how much discipline that took. She wondered if he knew she saw it.
And she wondered—uncomfortably—if he was doing it because of Conrad.
Because they had never spoken about that night. Not truly. Not beyond his quiet, steady voice saying, “Last night went way too far,” with a gravity that landed like a stone in her chest.
She’d brushed it off. Told him they had saved lives. Told him she made the call she needed to make.
He didn’t argue.
But something in his eyes had changed.
Not disappointment—she would have accepted disappointment. Expected it, even. Something else. Something harder to name. Something that lingered over weeks and months until it settled between them like a shadow neither of them addressed.
Now, as he finally lowered himself into the chair, leaving an intentional gap between them, that shadow seemed to stretch into the silence.
Kate took a slow sip of the coffee. Too hot. It burned faintly across her tongue, grounding her more than the warmth in her hand had. She welcomed the sting. Pain meant focus. Focus meant distance from the thoughts that kept circling like vultures.
Soft gestures were dangerous. They cracked things open.
Care had a way of revealing the parts she’d spent her entire life fortifying.
And sitting here, ceramic mug warming her palms, Christofer quietly settling beside her with the patience of someone who refused to push, she felt something inside her shift—just slightly. A strain at a fault line she’d been trying not to acknowledge.
She kept her gaze fixed on the tiles.
If she looked at him, she wasn’t sure what she’d let herself see.
Or what he’d see in her.
The corridor remained silent. A sanctuary by necessity, chosen because it was tucked away from prying eyes, from wandering officers, from the speculation she knew had begun circulating. She was still his commanding officer. She would not allow softness in public. Not with him. Not with anyone.
“I won’t break,” she had told herself, though the thought lacked conviction.
She felt him sit fully at last, his posture careful, hands folded loosely. Not touching her. Not reaching out.
Just there.
And for reasons she didn’t dare name, that presence felt more dangerous than any monster she had ever faced.
She took another sip. Let the warmth settle. Let the moment stretch a little longer, holding her breath as if something—some confession, some collapse—might slip out if she didn’t.
She would not break.
Not here. Not now.
But she wasn’t sure how many more small acts of care she could take before she did.
Kate stared down at the ceramic mug as if the coffee inside it held an answer she was finally brave enough—and terrified enough—to want. The surface trembled just slightly. Not the liquid. Her hands. She adjusted her grip instinctively, angling the cup in a way that hid the small shake from him. Or tried to. She was not entirely sure if she succeeded.
Christofer didn't comment, but she could feel him noticing. He always noticed the things she tried to keep contained. That had become its own unsettling pattern.
The coffee was warm against her palms. Warmer than she expected. Christofer must have walked quickly to bring it before it cooled, perhaps even asked someone to make it fresh. She shouldn’t think about that. She shouldn’t let herself interpret intention—kindness—because that was how armor rusts.
She lifted the mug just slightly, testing the steadiness of her hands again. They betrayed her.
Not much. Just a whisper of tremor. Barely perceptible.
But she felt it.
And that was enough.
Her throat tightened. She told herself it was the caffeine waiting to be tasted. That was a lie so thin it nearly dissolved on contact with her own awareness.
Her fingers curled more securely around the ceramic.
Get a grip, Kate.
She had said this to herself a thousand times. It never sounded the same twice. Once, long ago, it had been encouragement. Lately, it was starting to resemble a reprimand.
A shift. A slow one. A subtle one. But unmistakably present.
She drew in a breath that barely reached her ribs.
When did the shift begin? Not that day with Conrad—that had been a catalyst, perhaps, but not the origin. The coldness she found inside herself during that standoff had already been forming, like frost in the corners of her mind. She just hadn’t turned the lights on until then.
She didn't think about the event itself. Thinking in images is too dangerous; it brought color, sound, scent. She thought in tones instead. Emotional residue. The faint, echoing chill of the absolute certainty she felt in that moment—the horrifying surety that she would have let the Shreek tear him apart if it meant salvaging UNIT’s legitimacy.
Not because she had wanted him dead.
But because she didn’t hesitate.
Her chest knotted. I made the right call… didn’t I?
It was a familiar question. Threadbare from overuse. Every time she thought she had an answer, it came apart in her hands.
She shifted in her seat, adjusting the way she held the mug so her fingers had something to do other than tremble.
Next to her, Christofer remained quiet. He hadn't touched her. He hadn't tried. He sat with a patience that feels almost surgical. Careful. Precise.
But he watched her.
Not in a probing way. Not like he was waiting for a confession. More like he knew she was working through something silently and was simply holding the atmosphere stable.
And that—God help her—made the tightness in her chest worse.
She took a tentative sip of the coffee. It was strong, almost too strong, but she couldn't bring herself to mind. The bitterness grounded her. Anchored her. Reminded her she’s still here, still breathing in this secluded corridor she chose specifically so no one would witness her edges fraying.
The warmth traveled down her throat and settled somewhere behind her ribs. It almost felt comforting.
Almost.
She lowered the mug again and caught the tremble before it happened. She breathed out slowly through her nose, steadying herself, imagining the exhale as a file smoothing rough edges.
It didn't work.
She knew he saw the micro-flinch in her fingers anyway. He didn't comment. He only shifted slightly closer—not close enough to touch, just close enough for the air beside her to change temperature by a degree or two.
Her body felt it. Her mind tried, and failed, not to.
She set the mug in her lap and pressed her fingers briefly to its warm side, letting the heat seep into her palms.
Something’s changing in me, she finally admited to herself, the words forming not as language but as sensation. A recognition blooming with unwelcome clarity. Something has been changing for a long time.
UNIT requires decisiveness. Strength. Precision. She had always had those.
But somewhere along the way, her decisiveness sharpened into something colder. Her strength hardened into something brittle. Her precision narrowed until the world felt like a series of calculations, not lives.
She swallowed. Hard.
She thought of small moments—not crises, not world-ending threats, not things that would make the report logs—but private hints she ignored. The way she dismissed a junior analyst last week with a coolness that lingered in the room after she left. The way she overrode a team lead’s hesitation during a training drill, speaking with a tone sharp enough to silence not just him but everyone around him. The way she spoke to Christofer two days ago—too clipped, too quick, too guarded.
She hadn’t apologized.
She hadn’t apologized for anything in a long time.
The realization stings.
She curled one hand inward, fingers pressing against her palm until they ache. Pain was easier to categorize than doubt.
Next to her, Christofer drew in a quiet breath. Not loud enough to startle. Just enough to signal that he saw her retreating into herself and didn't want to let her slip too far.
He shifted again. A soft re-adjustment of posture. His knee angled slightly more toward her. His shoulder no longer square but slanted, open. He still kept space between them—appropriate, professional, careful—but she could feel the gravitational pull of him even across that measured distance.
She hated how attuned she was to his presence.
She hated how she didn't actually hate it.
Her pulse ticked faster. Not uncomfortably. Just noticeably.
She lifted the mug again, partly to drink, partly to have a shield between herself and the weight of her own awareness.
Christofer’s voice finally broke the quiet again.
“Kate.”
Just her name. Soft. Even. No demand in it. No reprimand. No pity.
But it lodged in her chest like a stone all the same.
She didn't look at him yet. She kept her eyes on the mug, on the swirl of steam rising from the still-warm surface.
She whispered back, “I’m fine.”
The lie landed on her tongue with the aftertaste of metal.
He didn't challenge the statement. But he didn't believe it either.
She didn't need to look at him to know that.
Silence stretched again—not uncomfortable, but fragile. The kind of silence that felt like it’s waiting. Like it knew the truth will surface when she was ready, or when it became impossible to hold down.
Her hands trembled again, just slightly. She tightend her grip.
Something is shifting, she thought, and this time the admission took shape fully, unmistakably. And I don’t know if it’s for better or worse.
She pressed the ceramic rim of the mug to her lower lip, holding it there without drinking, letting the warmth anchor her just enough to keep from unraveling entirely in front of him.
Christofer stayed beside her—close, but not touching.
Waiting.
Not pushing.
But he felt near enough that the trembling in her hands had nowhere left to hide.
And for the first time in months, the question she feared most rose to the surface with startling clarity.
What if the person I’m becoming isn’t someone I can live with?
She tried to swallow the thought.
She couldn't.
The tremor in her hands worsened for a moment—and this time, Christofer saw it unmistakably.
He leaned in a fraction. Still not touching. But close enough that she could feel the shift of air, the subtle intention in his movement.
He was not closing the distance to comfort her.
He was closing it because he feared she wouldn't say what was wrong unless she felt someone steady nearby.
And the worst part—the most dangerous part—was that she did.
She drew in a tight, thin breath.
The ceramic was warm.
Her fingers trembled.
Christofer watched.
And Kate, for the first time, could no longer pretend nothing inside her had changed.
Kate felt the shift before she registered it. A small, nearly imperceptible movement beside her — Christofer adjusting his posture, angling the line of his body ever so slightly toward her. It wasn’t deliberate or intrusive. In fact, it was the kind of subtle lean someone might make without thinking, the slow surrender of a person drawn closer by concern rather than intent.
But she felt it.
Oh, she felt it.
The air between them tightened in that quiet corridor, the hum of distant UNIT machinery pressing like a faint vibration along the walls. Somewhere far behind the sealed doors, computers whirred, comm lines murmured, footsteps purposefully crossed polished floors. The heartbeat of the organization she ran. The world she’d given her life to.
Yet it was that single, almost unconscious tilt of one man’s body that rattled her more than the morning’s classified briefings.
She kept her eyes low, fixed on the swirling surface of the coffee as if it were a tactical display requiring absolute focus. But her awareness stretched sideways, inexorably, drawn toward him by a quiet gravitational pull she had spent months pretending she didn’t feel.
He wasn’t touching her — not yet, not even close — but proximity had weight. And Christofer’s proximity felt like a tide.
She inhaled, steady but thin.
Not leaning in, she told herself. Not acknowledging it. Not now.
She was his commanding officer. They were in a hallway. Secluded or not, walls had a way of keeping secrets poorly. She’d chosen this corridor precisely because of how little traffic it got — a tucked-away artery of the building, used mostly by analysts carrying equipment that never needed to pass through commanding-officer corridors. But still…
Still.
Her eyes flickered briefly, instinctively, toward the far end of the hall. Empty. Silent. No risk. That wasn’t good enough. It never was.
If someone saw—
No. No one would. She had planned for that. Told herself she needed space to think, to breathe. A place where no one would look directly at her and expect strength.
Except for him.
He always looked. Always saw.
Kate swallowed, the motion tight. Something inside her felt shifted. Not because of his closeness, not entirely. The shift had begun long before this moment — small, unsettling tectonic movements inside herself she’d been trying to ignore.
Her leadership demanded composure. Composure so tight it calcified. Composure so unwavering it stopped being strength and became something more rigid, more brittle. Inhuman, sometimes.
And she had worn that composure like armor for so long that she wasn’t sure when it had started to change. When it had started to crack.
She exhaled quietly. Her heart beat too close to the surface.
Christofer didn’t speak at first. He rarely rushed her. He just shifted closer in that nearly invisible way that communicated both care and restraint. Even his breathing seemed gentler, softened by some instinct she could not name. He was giving her space while still occupying it. Present, but not pressing.
It should have irritated her — the part of her that craved independence, authority, autonomy. The part that feared softness because softness invited fractures.
But instead, the warmth of him, the quiet discipline of his stillness, tugged at her chest like a quiet ache.
She was losing altitude. Drifting.
And she hated that she wanted the drift.
The moment stretched, fragile and suspended. The kind that demanded no movement and yet was shaped entirely by it.
He finally spoke — voice low, steady, as if he were careful not to startle something wounded.
“You’re somewhere else.”
Simple. Observant. Not an accusation, not a prompt for confession. Just truth.
Kate felt her breath catch, a soft internal hitch she hoped he didn’t hear. Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug, the ceramic pressing warm against her palm, grounding her even as her body reacted to his words as if he had touched her.
She kept her gaze on her coffee, trying to maintain the façade of control. But she knew — she absolutely knew — that he was studying her, reading the tiny betrayals in her posture. He always noticed the things she didn’t want anyone to notice. The tremor she thought she’d hidden. The tension in her jaw. The way her spine strained between standing at attention and collapsing inward.
Somewhere else. Yes. Yes, she was.
She considered lying — offering some brusque, tidy explanation that would close this line of concern before it opened further. Something clinical, something efficient. Something Kate Lethbridge-Stewart would say when protecting her command structure mattered more than protecting her heart.
But the lie hovered on her tongue and dissolved.
Because he had leaned toward her. Because she had felt that lean like a shift in gravity. Because part of her — the part she wished would be quiet — wanted to lean back.
She didn’t. She wouldn’t. But the urge pulsed hot beneath her sternum, unwelcome and undeniable.
She gave a small shake of her head, not quite an answer, not quite a denial.
“I’m—” The word faltered, a thin thread that frayed under its own weight. She steadied her voice before she spoke again. “I’m just thinking.”
A weak deflection. He knew it. She knew it. The walls probably knew it.
His posture changed again — not closer, not farther, but alert. Attentive in a way that made her want to retreat behind rank and reason. But he didn’t push. He didn’t demand. He simply allowed the silence to remain open, unthreatening.
It should have been easier to stay distant. She’d spent her entire career mastering distance. Emotional, strategic, professional — she was fluent in every manner of separation that leadership required.
But that terrible, quiet truth lingered at the edge of her thoughts:
Something inside her was shifting. And she wasn’t entirely sure she could force it back into place.
Her voice was steady when she finally spoke again, but muted, like the sound of someone speaking through their own exhaustion. “It’s been a long morning.”
Not a lie. But nowhere near the whole of it.
Christofer’s response was a simple nod, slow and understanding. Not acceptance — but patience.
That, somehow, unraveled her more.
She looked down at the coffee again, watching a ripple disturb its surface. And for a moment, she let herself admit it — silently, only to herself, and only because the hallway was mercifully empty.
I’m struggling. And I don’t know how to show it without losing something I can’t afford to lose.
She didn’t speak the words. She didn’t dare.
But her silence was full of them.
She felt him watching her, not with judgment, but with that quiet, steady loyalty she had never asked for and didn’t know how to accept.
Gravity pulled again — soft, slow, inevitable.
She stayed still.
But inside, something leaned.
Christofer’s words lingered in the corridor long after he speaks them—You’re somewhere else.
Kate felt them settle on her shoulders like a weight she was already too tired to carry.
But Christofer just watched her, steady and unflinching, as if he could hear the truth ghosting around the edges of her words.
She tried again, forcing the next words out quickly, hoping momentum will disguise their fragility. “Just a long morning. Things pile up.”
Another lie—smaller, but no less sharp.
Her voice was clipped, polished, professionally distant. She hated how easily it came to her. How it slid into place like muscle memory. An armor built from decades of command.
Christofer didn't challenge her—but his silence was worse. He shifted, just a fraction, his chair legs creaking softly against the floor. Not closer, not yet. But enough that she felt the tension of the space between them change. His hand, resting loosely on his knee, lifted a little—hovering, not touching. Waiting.
Always waiting for her.
And Kate’s chest tightened with something she didn't have the courage—or the cruelty—to name.
She pressed her thumb along the curved rim of the mug. Steady. Controlled. Except it wasn't. Her skin felt too thin, too exposed. And Christofer, damn him, saw far too much.
“Kate…” His voice was low, careful, like he was trying not to spook her. It irritated her and softened her at the same time. She hated that combination most of all.
She swallowed, keeping her eyes on the coffee as if answers might form in the dark liquid. “You don’t need to worry,” she said. Another lie. They were stacking up around her ankles now, precarious and heavy.
She almost added I don’t need looking after. It would be the expected response—the safe one. But the words stuck somewhere behind her breastbone and refused to move.
Because it was not true. Not anymore. And admitting that felt like stepping into open air without knowing if there was ground beneath her.
Her thoughts drifted back—unbidden, unwanted—to the slow, creeping hardness she had been feeling lately. Not the sharp desperation of the Conrad night, but the quiet calcification afterward. A callus forming where her empathy used to be. Decisions became easier when they should become heavier. She told herself it was experience. Pragmatism. Leadership.
But sometimes, in the silence of evenings she didn't allow herself to have, she wondered if it was something else.
If she was slowly turning into someone she wouldn’t recognize.
Someone her father wouldn’t.
And the fear of that—of the steady, irreversible shift—landed in her ribs like a dull ache.
Christofer shifted again, his knee almost brushing hers. He didn't speak, but everything about him did: the crease at the corner of his eyes, the tension coiled in his shoulders, the question sitting quietly between them. Not a demand. Not pressure. Just presence.
Steady, patient presence.
And that, somehow, was the thing that undoes her.
“I’m fine,” she repeated one more time, softer. It’s thinner now, stretched too far to hold. She hated how it sounded—like a thread pulled taut and fraying.
Christofer’s brow furrowed. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
She felt that more than heard it. A small, sharp pang. Because yes—she did have to. She had to remain in control, composed, unshakable. She had to lead, to decide, to shoulder whatever weight no one else can. That was her job. Her duty. Her inheritance.
But with Christofer sitting there, too close and too perceptive, the mask felt unbearable. Too tight. Too brittle.
Her grip on the mug tightened. “I’m your commanding officer,” she reminded him. A useless deflection. They both knew it.
“I know who you are,” he said quietly.
And something in the way he said it—steady, certain, unafraid—hit a place in her she had been avoiding for months.
She went still. Completely still.
She wanted to tell him everything and nothing at the same time. Wanted to confess the fear, the shifting hardness, the way her reflection had started to look like someone who made decisions without flinching when she should.
She wanted to tell him she was tired of feeling like she was losing pieces of herself to the job. That she didn't know where the boundary is anymore—between leadership and detachment, between necessary ruthlessness and the kind that corroded.
She wanted to tell him she was scared. But the words don't come.
Instead, she inhaled, slow and shallow. “Christofer…” She stopped herself. Not because she didn't know what comes next, but because she knew exactly—and she couldn't allow it. Not here. Not now. Not when proximity felt this dangerous.
He watched her like he was trying to solve a problem he wasn't allowed to touch. His hand edged a fraction closer to hers. Still hovering. Still waiting.
She saw it. Felt its warmth even at a distance. And a part of her ached to close that last inch of space. Just one inch. Just enough to stop her mind from spiraling. Just enough to remind her she was still human beneath the command.
But she didn't move.
They sat in the quiet, the hum of UNIT operations far behind them, muffled by doors and distance. This corridor—chosen because it was secluded, because she couldn't afford softness in front of others—suddenly felt too small. Too intimate.
“Kate,” he said again, softer this time.
She closed her eyes.
Say something. Anything. Tell him you’re not fine. Tell him you’re scared. Tell him you’re slipping.
But when she opened her eyes, all she managed is a brittle, quiet: “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Not a lie. But not the truth either.
Christofer nodded once, slowly—not in acceptance, but in understanding. His frustration was quiet, almost tender. Not at her, but at the walls she won’t lower even when they were clearly crushing her.
His hand hovered just a breath away from hers.
Close. But not touching.
Waiting for her to choose.
And Kate, who has faced monsters and invasions and impossible choices—found herself terrified of the smallest decision: whether to let someone see her break.
She didn't. Not yet.
But her fingers curl slightly toward him. A movement so subtle she hoped he wouldn't notice. A movement so instinctive she knew he would.
Kate didn’t realize the tremor had returned until she felt the faintest ripple in the ceramic mug — the liquid shivering against the rim. She had been holding it too tightly, fingertips whitening, knuckles locked. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It wasn’t exhaustion either, though that lay beneath everything these days like a low, constant tide.
It was something else. Something she didn’t want to name.
Across the small, private space between them, Christofer noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed.
For a second he didn’t move. His posture — that careful, attentive stillness — told her that he was giving her a chance to steady herself first, to pretend she had control of her own hands, of her own nerves, of the spiraling mess of thoughts she couldn’t seem to corral.
But the tremor only grew, betraying her. Exposing her.
And Christofer, quietly and with no performance whatsoever, reached out.
Not abruptly. Not with any urgency that might embarrass her. His movement was deliberate, steady, almost slow enough to escape notice — except she noticed everything he did. And she felt the exact moment his left hand closed gently around hers, steadying the trembling mug.
Warmth. That was the first thing she registered. A warmth that wasn’t the coffee.
Her whole body went taut.
She didn’t pull away.
The ceramic cooled quickly in her grasp, but his hand didn’t. His fingers surrounded hers with a softness she was unprepared for — no pressure, no presumption, just a quiet, grounding presence.
And something in her chest, something she’d been holding together with discipline and denial, shifted. Not loudly. Not catastrophically. But undeniably.
His thumb brushed, accidentally or not, near the joint of her thumb. Just a featherlight tap. Enough to remind her that he was real. That he was here. That someone was close enough to witness the tremor she could no longer hide.
Kate drew in a slow breath. It felt uneven.
I shouldn’t want this.
That was the first thought that formed with any clarity. It rang like a warning, like an order she should obey. She was his commanding officer. She was responsible for the structure that held UNIT together. For the hierarchy, the protocols, the professionalism she had built her entire life upon. Everything she’d ever done demanded distance.
I can’t need this.
The second thought hit deeper. Closer to truth. Needing someone — that was dangerous. It opened doors she had spent decades keeping locked. It let people walk into the parts of herself she preferred not to examine too closely.
She swallowed hard.
I can’t need him.
And yet… her hand didn’t move. The instinct to pull away flickered, then died. His grip was light enough that she could have withdrawn without effort. He wasn’t holding her — he was offering her a moment of steadiness she didn’t have the strength to refuse.
The corridor remained silent around them, its seclusion a fragile kind of safety. The hum of UNIT operations behind distant walls continued like a heartbeat — the pulse of a world she was supposed to manage with perfect composure. A world that expected her to be unshakeable.
But her hand trembled. And Christofer steadied it.
“Sorry,” she breathed, barely audible. The apology slipped out reflexively, the way everything vulnerable in her tended to escape only when she wasn’t paying attention.
“For what?” he asked softly.
His voice wasn’t prying. It wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t asking her to explain the morning, or the months, or the weight she’d been carrying since the moment with the Shreek that still lodged in the back of her mind like a shard of ice. He wasn’t asking her to confess anything she couldn’t yet say aloud.
He was simply asking because he cared.
She shook her head, eyes lowering to where their hands met. “For—” The words caught. “For this.”
Because this was a crack. A small one, but a crack all the same — a point of softness she had no business indulging. A moment that shouldn’t exist. A moment she wanted too much.
He didn’t let go.
He didn’t tighten his hold either. He just stayed there, his hand around hers, grounding her in the simple, unadorned present.
“No apology necessary,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes at the sound of it. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to acknowledge that the warmth spreading through her wasn’t weakness, though it felt like it. Wasn’t danger, though it felt like that too. It was something painfully human.
Her chest tightened around the realization.
Christofer leaned a fraction closer. Not enough that their bodies touched — not yet — but enough that the air between them shifted. Enough that she felt his presence more fully. Enough that it felt like gravity.
He was choosing to be near her.
A soft, small part of her wanted to lean into that nearness. Wanted to let the tension in her shoulders dissolve. Wanted to let someone else carry even a fraction of the weight she’d been gripping so tightly her hands shook.
She didn’t move.
But she didn’t move away.
The silence grew thick again, dense with things unspoken and too fragile to name. Kate could feel the heaviness of her heartbeat, the awareness of his thumb brushing lightly — unintentionally? intentionally? — near the edge of her hand.
When she finally trusted her voice, it came out quieter than she expected.
“You shouldn’t…” She paused, breath catching. “You shouldn’t have to steady me.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes searching her expression. “I’m not doing it because I have to.”
That broke something in her — gently, but unmistakably.
Her breath stuttered. Her grip on the mug slackened, just enough that his fingers had to adjust to keep it secure. The small shift of his hand sent a ripple up her arm, something warm and frighteningly tender.
She knew she should reclaim the mug, reclaim her professionalism, reclaim the distance she depended on to survive this job, this life.
But she didn’t.
Her voice barely formed the words. “Christofer…”
He looked at her with a quiet, steady patience — like he already knew she wouldn’t finish the sentence.
Her throat tightened. There were no words that would fit. No words she trusted herself to say.
So she let the moment stand. Her hand in his. Her composure fraying at the edges. His warmth anchoring her to the here and now.
She didn’t pull away.
And he didn’t let go.
Not yet.
For several suspended seconds, neither of them moved.
Christofer’s hand remained around hers, steady, warm, grounding — a point of contact so small and yet so tectonic that Kate felt the tremor of it through her entire chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the corridor floor, because looking at him now would be too much. Too revealing. Too honest.
And honesty, today felt like an edge she had no business stepping toward.
Her breathing was controlled, technically, but uneven beneath the surface. The way an earthquake was technically stillness until the moment it wasn't. She could feel the crack beginning — not loud or dramatic, but insidious, the kind that formed silently through stone until one day it shattered.
Christofer shifted closer to her. It was a movement so slow she almost missed it, but she felt it — the air changed, the warmth of him closer, the sense of him bracing himself to do something he had been holding back. Then his right arm lifted, hesitating for only a moment before his hand settled softly on the back of her chair.
Her throat tightened.
She should've pulled her hand away. She should've straightened, reasserted command, reestablished the line between them with a tone sharp enough to cauterize the moment. She should've done all of that — and she knew it.
But she stayed still.
Her fingers remained beneath his, tense but unmoving. The ceramic mug sat in her other hand, cooling against her palm, its weight anchoring her more than the coffee itself ever could.
Kate inhaled, but the breath caught, thinning halfway through. She felt her lungs stutter around something she could not name. Or maybe she could name it — she simply refused to.
She had been tired before. Exhausted. Bone-deep. Years of decisions built on years of sacrifice. But this… this was different. This was erosion. Not one catastrophic event but the steady wearing-down of something essential.
I can’t crack. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.
But the thought had no strength behind it anymore.
Everything inside her felt fragile. As if the armor she had worn her entire life had finally thinned to transparency. As though he could see through it, through her, through the version of herself she had been holding upright with white-knuckle determination.
Christofer leaned in just enough for his voice to reach her quietly.
“Kate.”
Once again, he said her name gently — not as a command, not as an accusation. As if coaxing her back from somewhere far away.
She didn't answer. Couldn't answer. If she opened her mouth without preparation, something real would come out, and she wasn't ready for that.
So many years of being unwavering, unbreakable, unyielding. Years of standing firm even when she herself wasn’t entirely convinced. Years of being exactly who everyone needed her to be: strong, composed, consistent, immovable.
The world never saw Kate Lethbridge-Stewart hesitate.
Except Christofer. He saw every fracture she tried to hide.
And today, those fractures felt painfully close to the surface.
Her voice, when it finally emerged, was barely more than an exhale.
“I’ve been…” She stopped. No. That wasn't the sentence. It wasn't the truth.
She tried again. “Something’s been…”
No. Still wrong.
She shut her eyes.
Say it, she thought. Just say something true for once.
But the moment she tried, her chest tightened in warning. A pressure like a hand braced against her sternum.
Because truth felt dangerous. Truth meant revealing how deeply the doubt ran. Truth meant admitting she wasn't as whole as she pretended to be. And that was a vulnerability she had never allowed herself — not with anyone, not even him.
He shifted just slightly closer, the fabric of his uniform whispering against the chair. Not encroaching. Not pressuring. Simply there.
“Kate,” he said again, softer this time. “Talk to me.”
God, she wanted to. She wanted to say everything she had been burying. About the changes inside her she couldn't seem to reverse. About how colder decisions came easier to her now — how efficiency had started to feel like instinct, and softness like danger. About how she was afraid that someday she would slip so far into that hardness that she wouldn't find her way out.
But she couldn't. Not yet.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Christofer heard it. She knew he did. The quiet, strained tone. The lie attempting to masquerade as control.
His fingers tightened around hers, just barely, the gentlest squeeze—enough to steady, not enough to push.
She felt the warmth of his touch spread through her hand, up her arm, seeping into places she had long kept cold and locked away.
This is the moment she felt her breathing falter — not enough for anyone else to notice, but deeply enough that she noticed every stuttered inhale. A crack in her composure, so soft she almost denied it.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, but her vision blurred slightly around the edges. She took in another breath; it shook. Only once, but it betrayed her completely.
Christofer didn't comment. He didn't need to.
He just sat with her, close enough to catch her if she fell but far enough not to take her agency from her. His hand remained at her back, steady, warm, a silent promise: I’m here. I’ll be here. I won’t push you.
It hurt. It helped. It destroyed her and held her together all at once.
The silence thickened between them — not empty, but charged, heavy with everything unsaid. For a long moment, Kate simply sat in it, trying to decide whether to retreat or let herself lean the smallest fraction toward him.
In the end, she didn't move.
But she spoke.
Very quietly, almost inaudibly:
“I… don’t know if I like who I’m becoming.”
It wasn't the full confession. It wasn't even close. But it was the first crack in the wall she had built — the first glimpse she had allowed him to see.
Christofer’s thumb brushed, once, against the back of her hand — a gentle acknowledgement, a silent anchoring.
“I know,” he murmured. “But you’re still you, Kate. Even if you can’t feel it right now.”
Her chest tightened again — but this time, the pain is softer. Sadder. Closer to release than collapse.
She didn't cry. She wouldn't. But for the first time in months, she let herself breathe in the space between them.
Just one breath.
Just enough.
Christofer held her hand through all of it.
And she didn't let go.
For a long moment—long enough that the hum of distant UNIT servers shifted pitch, long enough that someone far off cleared their throat and a door sealed shut—Kate didn't move.
Christofer’s hand was still around hers, warm, steady, infinitely patient. He was closer now, close enough that she could sense the heat of his shoulder through the thin buffer of air between them, close enough that if she leaned even half a centimetre, their arms would brush.
She didn't.
Not at first.
She watched their hands instead, her gaze fixed on the point where his fingers curved around hers as if that one point of contact explained everything she had been too afraid to voice. Her breath was shallow but controlled, the kind she had perfected—breathing as a form of armour. But the armour is slipping. She knew it. She could feel it in the way her chest hurt, a tightness pulled too thin across too many years.
She had thought she would fall apart with noise—with shouting, or sobbing, or something violent enough to match the slow, grinding collapse inside her.
But this was quieter.
Infinitely quieter.
A fracture, not a shatter.
When she finally lifted her eyes, Christofer was already looking at her. Not searching for answers, not demanding them—just watching, with an understanding so gentle it feels unearned. His thumb didn't move, but she felt the intent in it, a silent I’m here threaded through his grip.
She should have looked away. She should have reestablished boundaries she herself drew, the invisible wall of professionalism she insisted on every day. She should have been distant, composed, untouchable.
She couldn't.
Her voice was gone. Not swallowed—emptied. Words gathered at the back of her throat and dissolved before they reached the air.
Instead, she leaned. Barely.
It was the smallest alteration in space, a shift so subtle it could be dismissed as fatigue or coincidence, but they both knew better. Her shoulder angled the slightest bit toward him; her posture, always so rigid, dipped in the direction of his warmth as if gravity had recalibrated.
Christofer didn't move or speak. He simply allowed the shift, absorbed it, understood it.
She hated how much relief she felt.
Her gaze dropped again—not to hide, but because it was easier to face her coffee than the truth reflected in his eyes. The ceramic cup was still warm against her palm. Steady. Unlike her, it didn't tremble. She tried to make her breathing match that warmth, but it was uneven, catching like a glitch in a system that had been running too long without maintenance.
Months.
She had been carrying this for months.
The aftermath of Conrad’s accusations had faded from headlines and UNIT briefings, but not from her. She still felt that shard lodged somewhere beneath her ribs—the knowledge of what she had been willing to do, the cold, merciless certainty that had settled in her like frost.
She hadn’t spoken of it. To anyone.
Certainly not to him.
But he knew. Maybe not the specifics, not the exact moments her humanity thinned enough for something darker to seep through—but he felt the shift in her long before she admitted it to herself. She remembered the look he had given her after the Shreek incident. Not anger. Not disappointment. Something closer to fear—but not for himself. For her.
She wondered if he saw that same fear now.
Her throat tightened. Words try again, pushing, struggling, but they crumbled before they formed.
Christofer’s voice came softly, cutting through the silence without breaking it.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Such simple words. Too simple. They landed softly, but the impact is seismic.
She closed her eyes. Just for a breath.
Pretending is all she knew. Pretending is how she had survived every day since she inherited the weight of UNIT on her shoulders—a legacy heavy enough without the added expectation of being unshakeable, unquestionable, unbreakable.
She opened her eyes again. She didn't pull her hand back.
A confession sat at the edge of her tongue, silent but pulsing—I’m not sure who I’m becoming. I’m afraid of where this path leads. I don’t know how to carry all of this anymore. But the words are too raw, too vulnerable to expose. She had never let anyone see that closely. Not even him.
Especially not him.
But she leaned again—slight, hesitant, deliberate.
A whisper of movement, no more than a breath, but she felt him feel it. His fingers tightened around hers just enough to say he understood. No pressure. No demand. Just acknowledgment, the kind offered by someone who saw what you cannot bring yourself to speak aloud.
Her pulse stutterd,
She didn't look at him directly—she couldn't—but she turned her head enough that his presence filled her peripheral vision. Close, steady, unwavering. He had always been that, hadn't he? A constant on the edges of her catastrophe.
And now he tilted slightly toward her. Not closing the gap, just mirroring the space she had allowed. A reflection, a reassurance. A promise without words.
Something in her loosened. Not healed, not mended—but less tightly wound. Less imprisoned.
She swallowed, the motion small and tight.
“I…”
The single sound fractured. She shook her head once, a silent apology for what she couldn't finish.
Christofer’s reply was almost breathless, but steady enough to anchor them both. “You don’t have to explain.”
She should have argued that. She should have insisted she owed him clarity, that leaders didn't get to hide behind silence. But the words didn't come. And he didn't push. He never pushed.
Instead, he shifted his supporting hand slightly on the back of her chair—closer, firmer. Not touching her, but near enough that she felt the outline of the gesture against her spine, a promise of stability she both needed and feared.
For the first time, she let herself lean into the closeness, fractionally, barely perceptible. Enough that if someone walked by, they would see nothing. But he felt it. And that was what terrified her.
Because she believed him.
Believed that she didn't have to carry this alone.
Believed that he would stay if she asked—without hesitation, without condition.
And belief—trust—was the most dangerous confession of all.
Her shoulders tremble once, almost undetectably. He squeezed her hand again, slow and deliberate.
Not demanding answers. Not filling the silence. Just staying.
And for the first time in months—maybe years—Kate let someone stay.
Even if she couldn't yet say the words. Even if she didn't know how.
Because in the quiet, in the charged stillness between them, something was spoken anyway.
A confession without sound. A confession without language.
But a confession all the same.
Christofer sat close enough that she can feel the angle of his attention, the way his body had turned toward her as if pulled by its own quiet orbit. His right arm rested along the back of her chair, not quite touching her, but its presence was unmistakable — protective, steady, there. And in his left hand, encircling hers, was the silent promise he made without a single word.
She didn't look at him. She couldn't. If she lifted her head even a fraction, the truth sitting in her chest might spill out, untamed and undeniable.
So she kept her gaze low, anchored to the floor as though the ground itself was the only thing capable of holding her together.
This shouldn’t matter so much, she thought, the words forming with a quiet, aching clarity. Not after everything I’ve carried.
But it did. God, it did.
Her thumb pressed lightly against the handle of the mug, grounding herself in the familiar weight. She had held countless cups of coffee in countless hallways, late nights, early mornings, crisis after crisis. It was the ritual she never let herself break: caffeine, composure, control.
But today the mug felt different. Not because of the coffee within — but because of the hand clasping hers. Because he had handed it to her. Because he stayed.
Because she allowed him to.
There was a quiet stillness settling over her chest, softening the frantic edges that had been carving at her insides all morning, all month, perhaps longer. She didn't feel healed — she didn't even feel close. But in this moment, she felt held, in a way she never let herself be.
She exhaled, a slow, fragile release of air she hadn’t realized she’d been keeping locked inside. It left her body in a shudder. Not enough to be obvious — not enough for anyone but the man beside her to notice.
He noticed.
His fingers tightened gently around hers, a small, careful squeeze, as though he was afraid too much pressure might shatter her. Or break whatever truce she had made with herself just to keep breathing.
She closed her eyes for half a second, letting the darkness soften the ache behind them before she opened them again to the blur of her own reflection in the mug’s surface.
Who am I becoming?
The question drifted through her mind without the sharp panic it carried earlier. Now it felt quieter. Not painless — nothing about it is painless — but softened by the presence at her side.
She hadn't found an answer. She doubted she would today.
But for the first time, the question didn't feel like a blade at her throat.
Christofer shifted slightly, a subtle adjustment meant to bring him fractionally closer without crowding her. His shoulder angled toward her, his posture protective without being possessive. He didn't try to speak. He didn't try to fix her. He simply stayed— and somehow, that defined the moment more than words ever could.
Kate felt the faint, steady brush of his breathing near her, the warmth radiating through the layers of their uniforms. She could sense the tension in his arm where it rested behind her, the silent readiness — not to intervene, but to support.
It was a posture she had seen him take in briefings, in crises, in the field: alert, grounded, resolute.
It hit her, with a quiet force she almost couldn't withstand, that he had taken that posture for her.
Her fingers relaxed slightly in his grasp.
She didn't consciously choose to lean. It wasn't a decision or a step or a surrender — it was a drift. A subtle tilt of her body toward him, barely perceptible, but enough that her shoulder neared the warmth of him. Enough that her breath synchronized faintly with his. Enough that he knew, absolutely, that she was allowing herself this single, unspoken moment of being less alone.
His thumb moved once against her knuckle. A small, grounding gesture. An anchor.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, but something inside her stilled — not in defeat, not in resignation, but in fragile acceptance.
She could allow herself one moment.
One breath.
One point in time where she did not have to be unshakeable.
Her father used to say that leadership meant standing when everyone else fell apart. She had lived that truth, carried it like a mantle, worn it into her bones until it felt inseparable from who she was.
But leadership, she realized now, was also endurance — and endurance needed rest. Even if just for a minute. Even if shared with someone she shouldn’t lean on.
Christofer’s hand remained steady around hers. Warm. Constant. Real.
She lowered her gaze slightly, lashes dark against her skin, as if bracing herself against the intensity of her own thoughts. The floor tiles blurred again, a soft haze, but she didn't blink them away. She let them be. Letting something be, without controlling it, was a strange relief.
The corridor hummed faintly.
Her breath evened,
Nothing was fixed. Nothing was solved. Tomorrow the world would demand more of her — and she would give it. She always had.
But for this stretch of time, carved quietly out of a UNIT hallway, Kate allowed herself a stillness she never permitted.
She allowed herself to be human.