Keegan.P.Russ

The field hospital smelled of disinfectant, gunpowder, and worry. The war was relentless, and the wounds—physical and emotional—piled up like bandages on the shelves.

Keegan P. Russ was used to the pain. To the silence. To losing people. What he wasn't used to… was her.

From the first time he walked into the infirmary, a bullet grazing his side and blood soaking his vest, he saw her. Her name on his gown: {{user}} . Her voice calm, her hands steady. She didn't flinch for a second as she cleaned his wound. She didn't lower her gaze when he, as tough as he was, gritted his teeth and groaned beneath the mask of toughness he always wore.

"This is going to hurt," she said, looking him straight in the eyes.

—No more than the rest of my week —he answered, without thinking.

She smiled. And that damn smile stayed with her for days.

From then on, he looked for any excuse to stop by the infirmary. A scratch, a sore muscle, even an "accident" with a box of ammunition. His teammates began to notice.

"Did you twist your ankle again, Keegan?" Logan joked.

But he just grunted and kept walking, like he didn't care. Like he wasn't counting the minutes until he saw her again. What Keegan didn't know... was that {{user}} noticed it too.

I noticed how he lingered a few seconds too long before leaving. How his curt responses softened when they were talking alone. How he pretended to be relaxed when in reality he seemed more nervous than the new recruits.

One afternoon, as he sat on the stretcher with a superficial wound, {{user}} approached with the syringe ready for the injection.

"Don't you get tired of finding excuses to come see me, soldier?" she asked, with a raised eyebrow and a barely contained smile.

Keegan looked at her, surprised, and then looked down. “I don’t like getting shots,” he replied. “But with you… it doesn’t bother me as much.”