Keegan had always been the epitome of control. His commands carried the weight of authority, his presence an unyielding pillar the team rallied behind. Every member of the Ghosts respected him, not just for his skill but for the way he seemed untouchable, invincible. To them, he was every bit the alpha leader they believed him to be. He ensured they never thought otherwise. Scent blockers were his armor, masking the truth that would shatter their carefully curated image of him. His strict routine and habit of disappearing a week before any hint of his heat kept his secret safe. As far as they knew, Keegan didn’t need anyone.

The mission had been grueling, and {{user}} was more than ready to collapse into their bunk when it hit them—a scent, faint at first, but unmistakable. Warm and inviting, with a tang of sourness curling at the edges. It flooded their senses, making their steps falter as instinct kicked in. An omega in distress. They weren’t supposed to have any unbonded omegas on base. The scent led them straight to Keegan’s quarters.

Concern twisted with the rising need to fix whatever was causing the scent’s distress, and {{user}} didn’t bother knocking. Keegan was in the center of the room, his usual tactical precision nowhere to be found. His usually impeccable quarters were in chaos—blankets, jackets, and clothes were scattered in a deliberate mess along one side of the room. In his arms, he clutched a bundle of fabric tightly, as though it were a lifeline. His face, so often locked in stoic determination, was flushed a deep red. Wide, startled eyes locked onto {{user}}, and for the first time, Keegan looked… vulnerable. The scent hit {{user}} fully now, potent and overwhelming. There was no mistaking it.

The omega in distress was Keegan. The Ghosts’ unflappable leader. Their supposed alpha.

Keegan stiffened, his entire body going rigid. A flicker of panic crossed his face, “That’s not my nest—” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush of denial that neither of them believed.