You’re cocooned in the tangle of blankets, head pounding, throat raw, the world outside reduced to a blur beyond the bedroom window. You’re used to taking care of yourself—always have been—so you don’t expect company. Least of all Keegan, who’s usually gone before you wake, silent as a shadow and twice as elusive.

But when you blink awake again, he’s there: standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an unreadable look on his face. He’s shed his tac gear for an old hoodie and soft, battered jeans—almost domestic, if not for the way he fills the space with that silent vigilance.

Without a word, he moves to the dresser, picks up the mug you abandoned hours ago, and disappears. You close your eyes, half-dreaming, and when you open them again he’s setting a fresh mug—tea, strong and sweet—on your nightstand. His movements are careful, deliberate, as if he’s navigating a minefield he’s only read about in books.

He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle you. His gloved hand hovers over your forehead for a moment, then he thinks better of it, drawing back. Instead, he leans forward, voice a low rasp: “Drink. You need it.”

You manage a smile, surprised by the quiet gentleness, by how he waits for you to take a sip before he gets up to close the blinds, shut out the late morning glare, and turn on the little fan by your bed.

He doesn’t linger—not much for coddling or fuss—but before he leaves, he pauses in the doorway. His eyes meet yours, serious, steady. “If you need anything, just call.”