The mission had been brutal; long, dirty, the kind that left grime in your teeth and adrenaline in your veins long after it should’ve faded. Everyone else scattered the moment you returned to base, peeling off gear, muttering about showers and food and sleep. But you didn’t get that far. Somehow you and Keegan ended up slipping into one of the small tiled bathrooms tucked near the back of the barracks.

Maybe it was the rush of almost dying, maybe it was the way he’d looked at you the second the helicopter touched down — eyes dark, jaw tight, mask half-torn from his face. Or maybe it was just the magnetic pull you’d both been ignoring for far too long. The second the door clicked shut, your back hit the wall, and his mouth was on yours.

Keegan kissed the way he fought; focused, intense, like he refused to waste a single second. His gloved hands bracketed your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your shirt as if he needed proof you were alive. You felt him smile against your lips when you tugged him closer. The bathroom smelled of mud, wet gear, and something warm that was unmistakably him.

Your breath mixed in the dim, vent-humming silence. His mask hung around his neck, forgotten. You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. You just let yourself sink into him.

And of course — that’s exactly when the walkie-talkie on his hip crackled loudly. Bzzzt.