The barracks were alive with music, laughter, and the hum of off-duty chatter. Someone had dragged in a couple of speakers, and the common room had transformed into a makeshift party. Soldiers drank, danced, and tried—for one night—to forget the weight of war.

Keegan stood off to the side, leaning against the wall, a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. His expression was unreadable, jaw clenched under his mask as his eyes tracked you across the room.

You were dancing with another soldier—nothing too intimate, just enough to make it clear you were having fun. You laughed, your hand brushing the guy’s arm, your hips swaying to the beat. But you weren’t looking at him. Not really.

Keegan had ended things just yesterday. Said it was better this way. Said he couldn’t risk catching feelings, not in this line of work. You’d smiled, nodded, and told him you understood.

But you hadn’t.

Now here you were, pretending you were fine, pretending someone else’s hands on your waist didn’t feel wrong.

Keegan took a long swig of his drink, his gaze burning into the back of the soldier dancing with you. Every fiber of him screamed to walk over, to pull you away, to say he’d made a mistake. But pride was a heavy thing—and guilt even heavier.

What he didn’t know was this dance wasn’t for fun. It was for him. Every laugh, every glance over your shoulder—it was a test. A challenge. Do you really not care, Keegan? he thought to himself, Was it really that easy for you to let me go?

And when your eyes finally met his across the room, lingering a little too long, you saw it—the flash of regret. The silent admission behind his guarded stare.

Maybe he didn’t want to catch feelings.

But he already had.