Keegan

The barracks were cozy, if you could call this shabby room with a leaking roof that. But for you and Keegan, it was almost home. In the corner, a radio crackled quietly, playing some old blues tune that was drowned out by the sound of the rain outside. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and two tin mugs sat on the table—one nearly full, the other long empty.

Keegan sat leaning back against a pillow, having removed his mask and tactical vest, leaving him in a simple black t-shirt. His usually sharp gaze was relaxed now, even a bit sleepy. He slowly swirled the mug in his hand, watching the moonlight dance in the amber liquid.

You settled in beside him, back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder.

"It's cold," you muttered, shivering.

Without looking, he silently pulled the edge of his camping blanket over your shoulders. You smirked and tugged the blanket tighter, covering him as well.

"Hey," he grumbled, but didn't resist.

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

"You're like a furnace," you noted.

"And you're like a leech," he countered, but his arm instinctively wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer.