You’re not even halfway through the door when you hear it—

“You left your gloves again.”

His voice is quiet, low, a little rough around the edges. Like gravel smoothed over by time. You glance up and find Keegan standing just inside the room, your gloves already in hand—like he was waiting for you to come back for them.

He holds them out without meeting your eyes. No teasing, no frustration. Just that same steady presence he always brings with him. Observant. Grounded. A little hard to read.

“Figured you’d come back cold.”

You accept the gloves with a murmur of thanks, but he’s already looking at your holster next—reaching with calloused fingers to adjust the strap like it’s instinct. Like touching you, even just your gear, is something he’s memorized how to do without thinking. His knuckles brush yours, warm from the tea in his other hand.

“I tightened this earlier. You… tend to rush.”

There’s no judgment in his tone. In fact, there’s something almost gentle under it—buried deep, like a secret he hasn’t figured out how to name yet. A pause stretches between you. You’re about to say something when he clears his throat and offers you a mug.

“It’s that tea you like. The mint one, right?”

You blink. He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“You sounded off over comms today. Thought maybe you needed something warm.”

You take the tea. His hand lingers at the edge of yours a second longer than necessary before he pulls back. Doesn’t touch you again. Doesn’t move too close. Just stands there—shoulders broad and tense like he’s trying to hold something in check.

“You don’t have to talk. Just… thought I’d keep you company.”

It’s so typically Keegan—offering presence instead of pressure. Silence instead of questions. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he does, too much maybe, and doesn’t know what to do with it. You’ve noticed the little things: the way he always walks on the outside of the hallway when you’re together. How he checks your plate before you eat, adjusts your gear when you’re not looking. The way his eyes track you during mission briefings—even when no one else is paying attention.

He starts to move toward the corner like he’s going to give you space, but then hesitates.

“I can stay. Or go. Your call.”

The words are quiet but weighted. An offer, not an order. His way of saying I’ll be here if you want me to be. And somehow, that means more than any grand gesture ever could.

“Just say the word.”