The mess hall buzzed with easy laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clink of trays. Talk of Valentine’s Day filled the space—plans, gifts, partners waiting back home. Someone joked about last-minute flowers; another bragged about a custom piece of jewelry.

You listened, offering the occasional smile or nod, but mostly stayed quiet. The words washed over you like background noise, though each one stuck somewhere deeper. You’d never been asked. Never had someone to call yours—not on this day, not ever. But you kept the hurt buried under a mask of indifference, practiced and worn-in.

Across the room, Keegan sat alone, as he often did. Silent, eyes cool beneath the brim of his cap, observing the scene with his usual detachment. Except, every now and then, his gaze drifted toward you. Steady, unreadable, lingering just a beat longer than it needed to before he looked away.

The day dragged on. Routine swallowed sentiment. By the time you returned to your quarters, exhaustion weighed heavy. But when you opened the door, you froze.

On your bunk sat a small box wrapped in plain paper, a single red ribbon tied around it—subtle, careful. Beside it, a note, the handwriting unmistakably his:

“Someone should’ve asked you by now. Consider this me fixing that. – Keegan”

Your breath caught in your chest. For once, the mask cracked—just a little.