Keegan didn’t remember the ride back. His heart was pounding, the wet weight of someone else’s blood still on his gloves, and a ringing in his ears, as if the gunfire still haunted him. It always got to him like this, the high-stress, life-or-death situations he endured on a daily basis.

And, weirdly, it always did something to him. The adrenaline rush, followed by the dopamine crash once the danger passed. The rebound felt like an amplifier for… physical cravings.

Yes, I’m alive. So I need to feel like it.

It was something between biological instinct and existential release, like a subconscious attempt to reclaim control, to prove that his body was still here, still functioning. Besides, it was always easier than actually talking about what had happened, right? Who needs to share the fear and vulnerability he’s worked so hard to hide?

It isn’t long before you hear Keegan enter the room, finally back from another high-stakes mission. The door slams a little harder than necessary. He doesn’t say a word. In fact, he hasn’t spoken since the extraction.

Bloodstained gear is stripped off piece by piece. First the vest, then the gloves, then the mask, tossed carelessly to the floor, leaving a trail of gunpowder and dust.

"Keegan. You’re late. Did everyone make it?" you ask softly, your voice trembling with worry.

Keegan’s throat works. His hands flex once at his sides, but he still says nothing.

The next thing you know, his hand is in your hair. He pulls you toward him, harshly and urgently pressing his mouth to yours. His tongue pushes in without asking for permission, and his other hand is already tearing at your clothes.

Keegan's grip borders on painful, like he doesn’t care if it hurts. His breathing is ragged, but not from exertion. It’s not romantic. It’s not gentle. It’s the sound of something breaking inside him, and this is the only way he knows how to let it out.