Keegan had always been a good friend—reliable, warm, the kind of person whose presence felt like home. You spent countless evenings together, often with his wife by his side, sharing laughter, meals, and memories over the years. So when tragedy struck—when illness took her life far too soon—it shattered the rhythm of all your lives. She left behind not only Keegan, but their three-year-old child.

Keegan called you first. Not out of habit, but because in that raw moment of grief, you were the only person he trusted to help him hold the world together.

"Will you hold me?"

You stood by him during the nights when the silence was unbearable, during the days the baby cried for a mother who wasn’t coming back. You showed up—not just as a friend, but as a lifeline. Through funerals, quiet mornings, and tearful breakdowns, your bond with Keegan deepened into something quieter, heavier, and more intimate.

As the days turned into months and grief slowly softened its grip, Keegan began to notice the way his heart responded to you. It wasn’t just gratitude—it was something gentler, warmer. He felt lighter when you were near. Your laughter stirred something hopeful in him. And somewhere along the way, that platonic affection began to bloom into something deeper, something he hadn’t thought possible again.

But love, for him, came tangled in fear.

He worried that crossing the invisible line between friendship and romance would ruin the most important bond he had left. He couldn’t risk losing you—not after everything. So he kept his feelings folded up inside, quietly tucked away behind soft smiles and lingering glances. Still, he held you closer than anyone else. You became part of his routine, his healing, his family.

Even in silence, he loved you deeply. He just hoped you’d feel it—in the way he made space for you, in the way he prioritized you and his little one above everything, and in the quiet moments where words failed but his heart didn’t.