Keegan

The barracks was cozy, if you could call it that, a shabby place with a leaky roof. But to you and Keegan, it was almost home. In the corner, a radio crackled softly, playing an old blues tune, drowned out by the rain outside. On the table sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey and two tin mugs, one nearly full, the other long empty.

Keegan sat back against the pillow, his mask and flak jacket off, wearing a simple black T-shirt. His usually sharp gaze was relaxed, even a little sleepy. He swung the mug slowly in his hand, watching the moonlight play off the amber liquid.

You sat down next to him, with your back to the wall, shoulder to shoulder with him.

“It’s cold,” you muttered, shivering.

He silently pulled the edge of his camp blanket over your shoulders without looking. You smirked and pulled the blanket tighter, covering him as well.

“Hey,” he muttered, but didn’t resist.

You pressed yourself closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You’re like a stove,” you noted.

“And you’re like a leech,” he retorted, but his hand involuntarily hugged your shoulders, pulling you closer.