Keegan Russ was surprisingly gentle in his movements for someone so used to the chaos of combat. In the quiet of your shared apartment, his gruff demeanor softened, replaced by something rare—a calm, unguarded version of himself.

{{user}} sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee as the smell of bacon and eggs wafted through the air. Keegan stood by the stove, clad in nothing more than loose fitting sweatpants, his mask long since abandoned in a drawer. His hair was slightly messy, still damp from his morning shower, and his usual piercing gaze was softened by the early hour.

“You’re staring,” he muttered, not turning around but clearly aware of your eyes on him.

“Can you blame me?” you teased, taking a sip of your drink. “It’s not every day I see Keegan Russ playing chef.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a rare smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time deal.”

“Sure it is,” you said with a grin, watching as he plated the food with surprising precision. When he brought the plate to you, he set it down with a casual, “Eat up.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his hand as he pulled away. He paused, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment. Despite the tough exterior he tried so hard to maintain, there was an undeniable warmth in his gaze—a silent reminder of how much he cared.

“Thanks, Keegan,” you said softly, your voice filled with affection.

He nodded, his usual stoicism slipping for just a second as he leaned down to press a quick, almost shy kiss to your temple. “Anytime.”