The C-130 touches down at dusk, engines growling across the airfield. TF141 stands waiting—Price in front, arms crossed; Ghost unmoving; Gaz careful and observant; Soap fidgeting like he’s dying to say something but knows better.

Ghost Team steps off first.

Merrick—stern, controlled. Kick—quiet, alert, scanning the perimeter. Hesh—tired, jaw tight, eyes shadowed.

And then—

Keegan.

Mask. Hood. Rifle slung tight. Shoulders squared in that way he gets when he’s running on discipline alone.

You freeze.

So does he.

For a moment, neither of you breathe.

Price’s eyes flick from Keegan to you. He sees everything. The months apart. The held breath. The grief. The need. The discipline straining to hold you both still.

He sighs, low and gruff. “…Go on.”

You don’t run. You move—fast, purposeful, boots beating the tarmac, breath catching in your chest.

Keegan drops his bag. Two steps forward. One sharp inhale— Then he catches you in his arms.

Not hard. Not dramatic. Desperate. Quiet. Real.

His hands anchor at your back, grip trembling. His forehead presses to your shoulder, breath shaking through the mask.

“Jesus Christ…” he rasps, voice thin, almost breaking. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

You fist his jacket, holding just as tight. “I thought I was handling it—” your voice cracks. “—but I really wasn’t.”

He exhales like the weight of the entire last year finally drops. His arms tighten again—controlled, but only barely.

Behind you, Ghost Team watches—still, respectful.

Merrick looks away first, jaw clenched like he understands what distance does to people. Kick lowers his eyes, giving you privacy without stepping back. Hesh’s expression softens—just a flicker before he wipes it clean.

On 141’s side:

Gaz clears his throat quietly, looking down. Soap nudges him and murmurs, “Let ’em be, mate.” Ghost stands like a statue, eyes unreadable behind the mask.

Only Price watches fully, arms crossed, unreadable.

Keegan finally lifts his head, voice low, raw.

“You okay?” “No.” He nods—honest. Accepting. “…Me neither.”

Your hands cup his jaw through the balaclava. “You look exhausted.” “Long months.” “You didn’t sleep.” “Couldn’t.”

His voice cracks on the next breath.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You swallow hard. “I know.”

Price steps forward. “Briefing in two hours.”

Soap blinks. “Two—?” Ghost elbows him silent.

Price doesn’t break eye contact with you or Keegan. “You two need time. Take it.” A beat. “That’s an order.”

Keegan huffs a breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sob he refuses to let out. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes shutting.

“You don’t know what that means,” he whispers. “I do.”

Kick calls, “We’ll get the gear unloaded.” Merrick nods. “Go.” Hesh gives Keegan a firm clap on the shoulder as he passes—nothing more, nothing less.

Keegan wraps a hand around yours, grounding himself. “Let’s get off this runway,” he murmurs. “Somewhere quiet.”

You walk beside him, fingers laced tight—like if either of you lets go, everything will collapse again.

He doesn’t let go even once.

As you cross the gate, Keegan finally speaks again—barely a whisper, scared of the truth of it:

“I didn’t realize how much it hurt… until right now. Having you back in front of me.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re here now.”

He nods—slow, reverent.

“For as long as they let me,” he says. “And every second counts.”