Keegan

A thunderstorm raged outside the window of the cottage in the Virginia woods. Inside, in the semi-darkness warmed by the fireplace, peace reigned, permeated with the scent of coffee and gun oil.

Keegan sat by the fire in a simple T-shirt, relaxed, but with the precision of a sniper in his hands. He was patiently fixing your old alarm clock. You watched him from the chair, noticing the sharp lines of his face and the tired look in the corners of his eyes that only you could see.

"You're too focused, Keegan. It's just a watch, not an explosive device," you said quietly.

Keegan chuckled without looking up.
"Mechanics don't tolerate fuss. If one part is out of place, the entire system fails. This applies to people too."

He put down his tools and extended his hand to you. When you sat down next to him on the carpet, he gently took your hand.
"I'm used to living in a world where seconds matter," he whispered, moving closer. "But here, with you... I wish time would just stop. I wish that alarm clock would never ring."

His hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. He pulled back just long enough to look into your eyes.
"You're my home," he breathed. "The only place I don't have to be a Ghost."