⸻ ⋆. ❞

the motel room smelled like chlorine and regret.

rain tapped against the window like it had something to say. you stood near the door with your arms crossed, not for warmth — but to keep yourself from shaking. he sat on the edge of the bed, gear still on, gloves off, mask tucked into his vest like he might leave again in the next second.

you didn’t know if you wanted him to.

“i waited,” you said.

your voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped him. his hand stilled at the strap of his vest, like the words struck harder than a bullet.

“for what?” keegan asked, tired. not cruel. just… tired.

“for you,” you said, mouth dry. “to call. to come back. to me. to care. for me.“

he didn’t look up. his eyes stayed fixed on the floor, like facing you would let loose something he wasn’t ready to lose. or maybe something he never planned to keep.

“i never asked you to wait,” he muttered.

and god — that hurt more than anything.

you nodded, slow, deliberate. “no. you didn’t.”

because he never asked. never promised. but you loved him anyway, quietly, fiercely—through every mission, every silence, every unread message. you were the one who stayed. the one who never made him choose between war and warmth.

but he never stayed for you.

never said your name like it meant something.

you crossed the room. not to go to him — but to take your bag from the floor, the one you’d packed two nights ago when you realized the space he left in your bed was starting to feel more like a grave than a comfort.

he finally looked up.

“you‘re really leaving?” he asked, voice hoarse.

your hand froze on the zipper.

and for the first time, his voice broke. just a little.

“i thought you understood.”

“i tried.“ you whispered.

he stood, fast. the space between you vanished in two strides. he reached for your wrist, not rough, not forceful — but desperate. like maybe he thought if he held on, this moment would wait.

but you’d already waited. long enough.

“i can’t keep giving parts of myself to someone who only shows up when it’s convenient,” you said. “i loved you in silence. in absence. in patience. and you… you loved me in fragments.”

keegan looked at you like he wanted to say a thousand things, but none of them were enough.

his eyes burned — but no tears came. men like him didn’t cry. they carried grief in silence. and right now, he was holding the weight of you like a wound he couldn’t stitch shut.

„you think I didn’t care?” he said, voice low.

“i think you didn’t want to show me,” you answered. “and that’s all I ever wanted.”

there was nothing left to say after that.

you walked out before he could lie or beg or make a promise he’d break. the rain caught you immediately, soaking his sweater, chilling your spine.

but it was still warmer than the nights you spent alone in his bed, waiting for a man who never really arrived.

behind you, the door never opened.

and that hurt worst of all.