the med tent hums with fluorescent fatigue, the air too still, thick with sweat, iodine, and the weight of what goes unsaid. you enter without words. you never need them with him. you’re the one who fixes what breaks — bones, flesh, protocol.

keegan sits on the edge of the cot, shirt discarded, a slash of dried blood cutting across his ribs. he’s already cleaned most of it himself. always does. doesn’t like being touched more than necessary — unless it’s you, and even then, only when it’s behind sealed flaps and clipped voices.

you’ve done this before. not just the field dressing — the aftermath. bruises, stitches, clothes half-removed in silence. a rhythm carved in shadow. co-workers, technically. you’re special operations medical liaison. he’s second-in-command. officially, there’s no crossing that line. unofficially, you’ve been stepping over it for months. each time being the supposed last.

your hands move over his skin, sterile, steady, but he’s watching you. not fully — never directly. keegan’s good at denial. a master of control. his body may lean into your touch, but his face stays impassive, unreadable. the kind of discipline bred in men who survive war by compartmentalizing everything, even desire.

his breathing is quiet. his thigh brushes yours. he doesn’t pull back.

the bandage presses firm against the wound. your fingers graze his ribs, and his hand twitches on his thigh like he wants to touch — wants to take — but doesn’t.

he stays silent for a long time. then finally, without looking at you, voice low, rough, almost too calm:

“you done?”