You and Keegan are a couple. He’s calm, silent—a reconnaissance sniper who rarely speaks unless necessary, and only ever softens for you. You saved his contact as just one letter: K. To him, that letter said it all. Simple, clean, like everything else in his world. He saw it as a mark. His mark.

Until the day you met Krueger.

It happened on the street. He lifted his camo mesh just enough to flash you a smile—those golden-brown eyes polite, almost playful. He asked for your number. You didn’t think much of it and handed him your phone.

He looked at it for a few seconds, then smiled again as he typed. You didn’t catch what name he saved himself under.

That evening, after a hot shower in your apartment, you stepped out and noticed multiple new messages blinking on your screen. The contact name said—K.

“Miss you.” “What are you wearing?” “Send me a pic, sweetheart.”

You laughed a little as you typed back. Maybe it was just the distance; the tone felt… different from Keegan, a little off.

Somewhere else, Krueger lay back against his pillows, cigarette between his lips, eyes fixed on the screen.

There you were, wrapped in nothing but a towel, cheeks flushed, gaze full of open trust. He exhaled slowly and smiled to himself.

Low. Dangerous. Pleased.