The armory was cold, the sharp scent of gun oil and metal filling the air as you stepped inside. Keegan stood at the far end, methodically cleaning his rifle, his movements deliberate, calm. You hesitated for a moment before forcing yourself forward, your boots echoing softly against the floor.

“Last night was a mistake,” you said, your voice firm, though your pulse betrayed you.

Keegan didn’t respond immediately. He finished reassembling the rifle, set it down with care, and finally looked up at you. His gaze was steady, unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or challenge.

“Maybe we should keep making mistakes,” he said coolly, his voice low and smooth.

The weight of his words hung between them, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.