At the base’s victory banquet, you held a glass of wine, scanning the room with restless eyes, waiting for that one familiar figure to return. Then the chatter faded; the commanding officer cleared his throat and began reading the list of the fallen. One name shattered every sound in your ears—Keegan P. Russ.

Your fingers trembled around the glass, cold wine slipping through them to drip onto the floor. Captain Merrick noticed the change in your expression and stepped in to block the crowd’s view, murmuring words of comfort you barely registered. You bit down hard on your lip, forcing yourself not to break in front of everyone.

In the days that followed, Merrick became your anchor. Late-night walks down empty corridors, quiet conversations at the edge of the training field, and fleeting touches that felt less accidental over time. A year later, you’d begun to accept his steady presence, telling yourself that maybe—just maybe—you could fill the hollow inside you with something new.

Until that evening. You stood with Merrick in an open space at the base, his arm draped over your shoulder as he brushed windblown strands of hair from your face. The sunset softened the sharp lines of his features, and you didn’t pull away when he leaned closer. Instead, you let yourself sink into his embrace, feeling the solid warmth of him.

The base gates creaked open, and in the glow of the setting sun, a tall, familiar silhouette appeared. Keegan stood there, motionless, eyes locked on you through his mask, as if he’d never been gone.

You froze. Merrick shifted, stepping in front of you, his hand settling naturally on your waist—a quiet, instinctive claim.