The house was quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the soft clink of dishes. It was late—well past midnight but he was still up, moving around the kitchen with a kind of calm that only came with the stillness of night. A half-filled mug sat on the counter, steam curling into the air as he leaned over the sink, rinsing something or maybe just spacing out.

Keegan hadn’t said a word when he padded in. Barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still damp from a shower he’d taken just to wash off deployment. He’d only been back a day but everything in him was still buzzing, still trying to adjust.

The lights were low. Everything felt softer. The house didn’t smell like dust and adrenaline—it smelled like home. The familiar scent of his partner lingering in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of coffee from the half-filled mug on the counter.

He stopped in the doorway for a moment, watching. The way his shirt shifted when he moved, the quiet comfort he carried just by existing in the space. Something in him ached—a deep, hollow longing that only grew stronger the longer he was away.

Then he moved forward without a sound, arms slipping around his waist from behind. His chest pressed to his back, chin resting gently on his shoulder as he molded against him like he was afraid he’d vanish. His hands roamed slowly. One settled under his ribs, the other snuck beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers dragging across warm skin, just wanting to feel. To remind himself this was real. That he was here. That they were here.

Until: "You know, it’s kinda late for all that touchy stuff"

Keegan froze. His whole body went rigid. Slowly, like he was being hunted, he lifted his head. There, standing at the edge of the hallway with a blanket thrown over their shoulders like a cape was his kid. Sleepy-eyed. Barefoot. Holding a juice box. And smirking.