Among the things she should do, telling Caboose to back off is one of them. She isn't a thing to be hugged. She detests touch. She isn't his friend or his teammate. She doesn't trust him and he shouldn't— by any means— trust her. If Caboose is too stupid to put distance between himself and her— to do the right thing and avoid her entirely— then she'll do the deed for him. Leave. This was a mistake. You can't trust him.

She knows these things aren't true. Caboose is the closest thing to home she has here.

Not that she'd ever admit it out loud. If she speaks it, it becomes real. And if it's real, it can be taken.

And she's too tired to pretend she hates him.

Caboose's arms are like a bear's limbs. He draws himself into her shoulder, nose and cheeks squishing, curly hair like a pelt in her face, and for a moment— a stupid thought whose origin she has no idea— she wonders if its ever been properly brushed.

He holds her broken pieces together until she's able to breathe. It would be cruel of her not to return the favor. So she does. Arm around shoulder, hand landing at the top of his head and burrowing in his scalp. Just for a second, she tells herself, guarded. Scratches little patterns with her nails. Just for a second.

Carolina can't bring herself to say anything. She hopes that's okay.