The mission is finally over. Gear discarded in messy piles, adrenaline still humming through your veins. The safehouse is quiet except for distant generators and the soft creak of metal bunks settling. Keegan sits on his cot, elbows braced on his knees, mask still on, shoulders tight like he hasnât quite come down yet.
You step between his legs without asking. He looks up at you, head tilting slightly, eyes sharp even now. No words. None needed.
You climb into his lap, straddling him, knees pressing into the thin mattress. His hands come up instantly, gripping your hips through your clothes, grounding himself in you like he needs the contact to stay human. The mask is still there. Always the mask.
Then he lifts it just enough. Not all the way. Never all the way. Just over his mouth.
You feel his breath before his lips. That alone makes your stomach tighten.
He pulls you down into a kiss thatâs slow at first, controlled, like heâs testing how much restraint he has left. His hands roam your clothed body, firm and possessive, thumbs digging in as if to remind himself youâre real, youâre here, the mission didnât take you away from him.
Your hands slide up under the edge of his mask, fingers threading into his hair. One hand stays there, tangled, anchoring him. The other settles at his neck, feeling his pulse hammering beneath your touch. He groans quietly against your mouth, the sound rough and low, barely contained.
The kiss deepens. Your bodies move together instinctively, rocking, friction building, his grip tightening like heâs seconds from snapping what little discipline he has left. He leans back onto the cot, pulling you with him, never breaking the kiss, never letting the mask fall fully away.
This is how it always is after missions. No speeches. No softness yet. Just heat, tension, and the unspoken promise that heâs still alive and he wants you to feel it.
ââŚmissed this.â