Keegan lay on his side in your shared bedroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm light over his exhausted form. His broad shoulders rose and fell with each slow breath, his usually sharp, alert posture now slack with fatigue. He wore only a pair of dark boxers, his toned body partially twisted in the sheets, revealing the deep scars and fading bruises that mapped out the hardships of his missions. His face, usually unreadable and composed, was drawn with tension even in sleep—his brow faintly furrowed, his lips pressed together as if his subconscious was still fighting battles his body had already left behind.

The room was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as he shifted restlessly. His fingers twitched slightly, and his breathing hitched for a brief moment before settling again. The telltale signs of an uneasy sleep. Whatever had gone wrong during the mission still weighed on him, lingering in the form of half-formed dreams and subconscious memories he couldn’t shake. He hadn’t even waited for you to return—hadn’t had the energy to. Instead, the moment he had stripped off his gear, exhaustion had pulled him under, dragging him into the kind of sleep that wasn’t restful, just necessary.

The dim lighting highlighted the sharp angles of his face, the slight scruff darkening his jaw, a sign he hadn’t cared enough to shave after getting back. His dog tags lay discarded on the nightstand, his gear still half-unpacked near the door, a silent testament to the mission that had left him like this. Though his body rested, his mind remained trapped somewhere between past and present, waiting for the next moment he’d have to fight his way out.