The house is finally still. Your son’s laughter has faded into soft breathing, the hush of his dreams settling over the walls like a balm. In the glow of the hallway light, you move quietly through the kitchen, finding Keegan leaning against the counter, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes shadowed and thoughtful. He doesn’t speak—not at first. He just watches you with that intent, unreadable gaze, as if memorizing the lines of your silhouette all over again.

You expect him to say something about the day, the flight, the way your son clung to his shirt. But Keegan’s quiet lingers, thick and meaningful, drawing you in until you’re standing toe-to-toe, heart thumping in the hush.

He reaches for you, the movement slow but sure, palm splaying against your waist. It’s not rough, not urgent—just steady, anchoring, as if he needs to feel you solid and real beneath his touch. He draws you in, noses brushing, foreheads nearly meeting. His breath fans your lips, heavy with all the words he never quite says.

A calloused thumb traces your cheekbone, knuckles ghosting along your jaw. His eyes flicker from your mouth to your eyes and back, hunger shimmering there—restrained, reverent, aching. “Missed you,” he murmurs, the words gruff and low, barely a vibration in the quiet.

You lean into him, and the world narrows to the circle of his arms. Keegan’s hands settle on your hips, fingers flexing, drawing you closer until there’s nothing between you but warmth and want. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another, slower and deeper, each one building, wordless but insistent.

He’s patient—always patient—but there’s a desperation to the way he holds you tonight, the soft scrape of stubble against your neck, the heat in his breath as he guides you gently back toward the bedroom. His touch is an unspoken plea: stay, don’t let go, let me have this.