Sunlight streamed through the blinds as you pushed the door open, your smile already spilling out.

“Keegan! Look, I got this keychain today—it’s so cute, right?” The little plush dangled in your palm, swaying as you tried to share your joy with him.

He sat at the dining table, methodically cleaning his rifle. At the sound of your voice, he glanced up for a moment before giving a brief nod. “Mm. Nice.”

His eyes dropped again, fingers moving slowly over the cool metal as if your happiness had nothing to do with him. You told yourself he just wasn’t good at showing it.

That night, you were jolted awake by the sound of ragged, restrained breathing. On the other side of the bed, Keegan was drenched in sweat, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun under his pillow. You called to him softly, but he suddenly clamped his fingers around your wrist.

A few seconds later, he released you, his breath heavy and uneven. You didn’t ask what he’d dreamed of—just held his hand, letting him know you were there. Deep down, you knew that when morning came, he’d return to being the same silent, distant, emotionally closed-off man—one who neither wanted to take responsibility nor truly let go.