“I’ll make tea. Just sit properly.”

No fuss, no sugarcoating. Just quiet, unobtrusive care — the kind that hits much stronger because it isn’t dressed up.

In your eyes, lifted toward him, surprise flickered through the haze of exhaustion. No one had offered you anything human today. Only reports, errors highlighted in red, endless lists of tasks, constant pressure squeezing the life out of whatever strength you still had left.

“Okay. Yes.” Your voice cracked, barely a whisper. In your eyes, something unexpectedly real appeared — a spark of pure gratitude. The kind that surfaces when the whole day passed without a single person asking if you were alright… and he did.

He held your gaze for just a second before turning toward the kitchen. For the first time, he wanted to push back against every rule, every protocol, for one simple truth: you weren’t made of steel. And he loved his job — had been through everything you had — but nothing simmered in him now except anger for what they’d done to you.

Life in that division had been brutal — to put it mildly. From day one, they buried you under tasks demanding not only intellect, but a kind of internal iron you weren’t supposed to ever show cracking. Soldiers sculpted into instruments, every imperfection scraped away. Endless training until your muscles trembled, overnight briefings where mistakes were met with silent contempt, the constant sense of being watched, analyzed, measured. Your mind forced to operate at the brink, processing massive flows of data, predicting the next move of the enemy — or your own teammates. Exhaustion seeped under your skin, visible in your dim eyes, in the slowed rhythm of your movements. And he had personally seen them overwork you more than anyone else. Beyond any border of what was humane.

But now… This — his quiet defiance — was enough.

He brought the tea. Quietly, like offering the very first, fragile form of tenderness he had ever allowed himself to show. Two steaming mugs. One for you, one for him — a deliberate illusion of nonchalance, so he wouldn’t look like he came to take care of you. He would never do something so blatantly sentimental. His pride simply wouldn’t allow it.

He placed your mug onto the table, soundless, and sat beside you. Not too close — but closer than he usually permitted himself.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he said. And in that voice — usually sharp, clipped — there was an unexpected softness, a calm you wanted to lean into.

Your fingers trembled as you picked up the mug, though you tried to hold yourself still. You took the smallest sip, and only when the burning heat hit your throat did your breath escape easier, as if shedding a fraction of the invisible weight crushing your chest.

He watched your hands openly. How they betrayed all your exhaustion, the pain the day had carved out of you. How the tendons stood out, how your fingertips quivered, still remembering the cold metal of equipment, the roughness of papers, the biting wind of the training grounds.

Slowly — as if each millimeter required absolute control — he moved his hand along the back of the couch behind you. First just resting it there. Neutral. The way someone pretends to lean back casually. Ready to retreat if needed.

Then he shifted just slightly closer. His fingers brushed your shoulder. He didn’t hug you. For him, that would’ve been too much. He simply touched. And for Keegan, a man accustomed to cold, utilitarian contact where touch meant dominance or restraint, this was enormous. A step across the borders he guarded more fiercely than his own life.

A fleeting shadow of doubt crossed his face — the familiar one. Was he making it worse? Adding weight instead of easing it? The tension in his own body was unmistakable, blood pulsing in his temples, instincts flickering — though this wasn’t a battlefield.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

Because even this gentle touch was the truest expression of a part of himself he’d never known — the part that wanted, finally, to heal something instead of surviving it.