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nonchalant-abby · 4 days ago

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imagine #6

character: Keegan P. Russ words: 8059 cw: 18+, bit of angst, very mild sexual content (just a little) description: in which Keegan hides out on your family’s farm when a mission goes wrong. (requested anonymously, hope I did it justice!!) a/n: yee-haw I love farmer!Keegan lmfao I hope you guys like it!! this is set before the events of the cod: ghosts game btw!

Your routine never changed. There wasn’t room for variation anymore, not in this world — not here, beyond the Liberty Wall where the Federation watched everything. You got up with the sun, worked until it set, and tried not to be noticed. That was how you survived.

They said your family was spared for “provisions,” but you’d long since stopped pretending that was anything but a half-truth. The Federation let your family exist because you were useful — because your fields fed them, your cows gave milk, your hens laid eggs. And in return, they didn’t burn your land to ash like they did to the neighbours. As long as the soil stayed fertile, as long as the silence was kept, you were allowed to live. But that wasn’t freedom. It was barbed wire shaped into a leash.

You’d been young when it all fell apart — San Diego, your parents, the sky itself. The fire from above had blotted everything out, and by the time the smoke cleared, you were a teenage orphan on a half-burnt patch of land with two aging grandparents and nothing else. Ten years later, you were still there, grown now, hardened by it all. The sun was meaner, the wind sharper, and every shadow on the horizon made your chest go tight.

You stood among the chickens as they shuffled and clucked around your boots, their beady little eyes focused only on the corn you'd scattered. Stupid, greedy birds. But they were gold, in their own way — eggs for barter, meat for when things got bad, and the illusion of normalcy in a world that had long since turned to hell. You wiped your hands against your trousers, faded denim nearly threadbare at the knees, and turned back toward the house. The barn’s wide mouth yawned ahead of you, and your stomach growled as you passed through it, already thinking about the dinner you’d saved for yourself. One meal a day. That was the rule.

You didn’t make it far.

A pair of arms seized you from behind, fast and brutal. Hands clamped over your mouth and nose, cutting off your breath, dragging you backwards before the scream could even leave your throat. You kicked, thrashed, elbowed, but your attacker was stronger — taller, heavier, lean muscle packed into unforgiving armour. Your back slammed into the packed dirt, the scent of hay and oil thick around you as you were forced down behind a pile of straw bales. You twisted, but his weight pressed you flat, pinning you beneath him.

“Stop fighting me, kid—”

You bit his finger.

Hard.

He let out a sharp hiss, yanking his hand back before slamming you down again, his body pressing close to restrain yours. “Fuck,” he snarled. “Alright, alright — just stop! I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Your chest heaved, your pulse thundering in your ears. You froze, just long enough to get a better look at him. His face was half-concealed by a balaclava, a rough, dark thing marked with the faded white of a skull. His gear was military, American — though beat-up and dusted with travel, like he’d been crawling through hell just to get here. But it was his eyes that truly held you in place. Blue — so blue they almost looked unreal, stark and cold and furious. Watching everything.

“Don’t scream,” he said, voice rough, low. Not quite a command, but not a plea either.

You gave a small nod.

He hesitated, then peeled his gloved hand away from your mouth. You gasped in a sharp breath, the air thick with the scent of sweat and grain. Your throat felt raw already.

“You’re not Federation,” you rasped, eyes narrowing.

“No.” His voice was quieter now. “Definitely not.” A beat passed. “Are you?”

You scoffed, disbelief tightening your face. “Do I fucking look like Federation to you?”

“I’m just asking,” he said, raising one hand defensively, as if you were the unpredictable one here. “Calm down.”

The rage hit you all at once — hot, fast, blinding. You twisted your leg and kicked him square in the chest, hard enough to shove him off balance. He grunted, staggered back onto one knee.

“Fuck you,” you snapped, scrambling upright. “You don’t get to grab someone like that, asshole! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? If anyone saw you — if a patrol even thinks someone’s here — my whole family’s dead.”

His head tilted, skull mask shifting with the motion. “Do that again,” he said, voice clipped, “and I’ll break your leg.”

But there was no fire behind it. Just exhaustion. And something else — something that sounded a hell of a lot like desperation, thinly buried beneath the steel. He didn’t reach for his gun. He didn’t move to stop you again. He just looked at you like he was weighing something in his mind — whether to keep speaking or vanish back into the dust.

“I need somewhere to lay low for a while,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue but steady. “I got separated from my unit a few miles back. Your farm was the first shelter I saw.”

The audacity of it struck you like a slap. For a moment, you could hardly process what he was asking — not because it was complicated, but because it was so unbelievably reckless. Outrage rose sharp and immediate in your chest. Who the hell did he think he was? Some stranger in combat gear, skulking through your barn like a ghost, grabbing you in the dark — and now he was asking for sanctuary like it was nothing? Like it wasn’t your family’s blood on the line?

“You do realize,” you said, slowly, the words raspy, “that if they catch you here, we’ll all be executed. My grandparents. Me. And you.”

It wasn’t a hypothetical. The Federation didn’t ask questions. They didn’t issue warnings or offer mercy. They came with fire and bullets and orders, and they left with corpses. You’d seen it before — neighbours who made the mistake of helping the wrong person, or even just saying the wrong thing. You’d helped dig the graves afterward.

But then — he moved. One gloved hand reached up, and in a single motion, he tugged his balaclava off and dropped it into the hay beside him.

You weren’t prepared for what you saw.

He was a little younger than you’d assumed — probably just over thirty, if that — with sharp, storm-cut features that should’ve belonged in a world untouched by war. High cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, a mouth set in a thin, pouty line. There was a deep, stubborn dimple in his chin, like a scar from childhood. And those eyes — still blue, still cutting — suddenly seemed far too human up close. Too beautiful. They caught you off guard in a way that had nothing to do with safety. Something pulled low in your stomach before you could even pretend to stop it.

“I’m asking you to trust me, kid,” he said, voice softer now. “Can you do that?”

You gritted your teeth. Manipulation. It had to be. A face like that didn’t just happen to look at you like that — not in a world like this. Not unless he wanted something. And maybe he did. Shelter. Safety. Food. You didn’t know. But what infuriated you the most was that it was working.

“You’ll have to speak to my grandfather,” you muttered. “I don’t call the shots here.”

He nodded once. “Fine. Take me to him.”

Of course your grandfather had said yes. Because that was the kind of man he was — old, wise, and generous to a fault. He’d looked the soldier up and down, taken in the dirt and the way his voice dipped with exhaustion, and simply nodded. No questions, no fuss. Just a quiet, “You’ll stay as long as you need to. Might as well eat too.”

Now, Keegan — he said that was his name, only once, like it didn’t matter — was seated at the dinner table, freshly changed into an old pair of your grandfather’s jeans and a soft, sun-bleached flannel. The shirt was a little too small for him, stretched tight across his chest and shoulders as he worked steadily through a plate of food meant for someone else. Meant for you.

You hadn’t said a word. Just watched from the corner of the kitchen, arms folded, mouth pressed thin. You hadn’t offered it to him, hadn’t made any grand gesture of sacrifice. But you’d let it happen. You’d stood by while your dinner was scraped into his bowl and you told yourself it was fine. You’d get used to the ache. You always did.

He spoke softly, now and then, responding to your grandfather’s occasional remarks or your grandmother’s quiet questions. Nothing personal. Nothing deep. He was careful not to give much away — always watching, always assessing — but polite. Cordial. It made you feel even more on edge.

When the dishes were cleared and your grandparents had retired for the night, you found yourself in the living room, dragging old blankets out of the chest by the hearth. The couch creaked under your touch as you layered one over the lumpy cushions, then another. You didn’t want to be hospitable. But your hands moved anyway, folding a pillow, adjusting the threadbare quilt. It felt mechanical. Performative. Like you were playing a role that had been handed to you long ago: the girl who obeyed, who made room, who didn’t ask for anything in return.

“I’ll sleep here,” you said without looking up, smoothing the blanket. “You can take my room upstairs.”

Keegan stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, arms crossed. You could feel his eyes on your back. You didn’t know if it was suspicion, or guilt, or something else entirely.

He didn’t thank you.

You didn’t expect him to.

⟡

The coughing didn’t stop. It had started faintly sometime before dawn, low and rasping, buried beneath the creaks of the old farmhouse, and by the time the sky turned the colour of pale ash, it had grown louder. Wet. Persistent. You heard it before your feet even touched the floor. It twisted low in your gut, a sound you recognized far too well, one that always carried the same dread-heavy question: Is this the one that ends him?

You padded down the hallway, socks catching against rough wood, and stepped into the kitchen that still smelled faintly of last night’s boiled potatoes. Keegan sat at the table, elbows resting on his knees, hunched forward like a man used to discomfort. His head tilted up slightly as you entered, eyes scanning you briefly before flicking back to the empty wall as if trying to make himself smaller. He didn’t speak. There was no food on the stove, no plates set, no hum of the kettle — just silence, thick and watchful, and the rhythmic hack of your grandfather’s lungs echoing faintly from the room upstairs.

Your grandmother came in moments later, her apron still tied from the night before, her hands pale and dry at her sides. The way she looked at you — soft, resigned — told you everything before she even opened her mouth.

“He couldn’t get up,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “He’s burning up. Said it hit him in the night. You’ll need to tend to the fields today, sweetheart.”

You nodded stiffly, though a raw panic was beginning to thrum beneath your ribs. A cough like that could be anything — pneumonia, a cold — but none of those things ended well out here. There were no doctors. No antibiotics. No trips to town that didn’t come with a Federation checkpoint and the risk of being disappeared. And he was old. Too old to be fighting off something like this without help. You clenched your jaw to keep your voice steady.

“Okay,” you said.

You didn’t wait for Keegan’s reaction, didn’t look back to see if he was still watching. You shoved on your boots by the back door, pulling your coat over yesterday’s clothes, the fabric still stiff with dried sweat and dust. The barn smelled like cold diesel and sun-warmed hay, the morning light filtering in through the warped wooden slats in pale stripes. You moved automatically — feed first, then fence checks, then water line inspection — already running through the order of tasks in your head like a prayer. Like if you just focused hard enough, you could keep everything from falling apart.

You were halfway through setting the buckets when the barn door creaked behind you.

“You alright?” Keegan’s voice broke the quiet like a stone tossed into still water. You didn’t turn around.

“I’m busy,” you muttered.

He stepped inside anyway, heavy boots crunching on old hay. “I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it.”

You spun, fast and sharp, the tension crackling off you like static. “Look, I don’t need your pity, alright? I need the sun to stay up, the cows to not kick over the pails, and I need him to not die, so unless you’ve got something helpful to say—”

“I want to help.” He met your glare without flinching. “I know I’m not family. But I’m here too for now. Let me do something useful.”

You blinked, taken aback by the way he said it — flat, almost weary. No smugness. No charm. Just that gravel-edged voice and those winter-coloured eyes trying to make you understand something unspoken. It should have softened you. It didn’t.

“What, you think you can just roll in here with your guns and your uniform and suddenly you’re farmhand of the year?” You crossed your arms. “You think pulling security detail and running through training drills somehow qualifies you to mend a busted irrigation pipe or birth a breech calf?”

Keegan’s brow twitched, but his voice stayed even. “Didn’t say I was an expert. Said I’d help.”

“You don’t know how,” you snapped. “You don’t know the land, or the soil, or how the gates swell in the rain and need a hard shoulder to close them. You don’t know the difference between feed hay and bedding hay. You’re a soldier — not a farmer.”

“I’m a survivor,” he said, stepping closer now, the quiet heat of his presence suddenly tangible in the morning chill. “And survivors adapt. You don’t think I’ve had to fix a generator in the dark with a busted hand? Or shovel out latrines after someone dumped a septic tank in the wrong place? You think I’m too soft because I slept on your couch and ate your stew?”

You scoffed, but your arms dropped to your sides. “No. I think you’re used to shooting your problems.”

“And you’re used to ignoring anyone who offers to help you.”

That landed like a slap.

You stared at him, jaw clenched, fists curling at your sides. You wanted to scream, to shove him, to ask who the hell he thought he was, stepping into your barn, into your world, and pretending like he had any say in what happened next. But the words didn’t come. They sat bitter and heavy in your throat.

“You want to help?” you said finally, your voice low and shaking. “Fine.”

You turned and stormed out of the barn without checking if he was behind you. You didn’t need to. You could already hear his boots crunching in the gravel, steady and maddeningly sure.

⟡

By the time the sun hit its highest point in the sky, the heat was a weight pressed against your back. Sweat soaked the collar of your shirt, dust clung to your skin, and the ache in your arms had settled into something dull and constant. Even Keegan looked worn, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, dirt streaked along his forearms and across the side of his neck where he’d wiped his face. You hadn’t spoken for the last half hour — not since your fourth argument, this one about whether the fencing near the orchard should be patched from the inside or out. You’d called him a stubborn bastard; he’d called you a mule in boots. Neither of you had been wrong.

Eventually, you muttered that you needed a break, and he followed without comment.

You led him to the clearing nestled deep in the cornfield, a place carved out by your own hands over the years — small, shielded, quiet. The stalks surrounded you like walls, thick and golden, swaying gently with the breeze, their dry rustling voices swallowing up the sound of the outside world. Even the house felt far away here, unreachable. This was where you came when everything grew too loud. When you needed to scream or cry or just sit and remember how to breathe.

You tugged the frayed old blanket from where it was folded in the crook of the crate you kept hidden beneath the corn, shook the dust off, and dropped it down over the grass. It was faded, sun-bleached, a patch of something that once might’ve been blue. You sat cross-legged and tossed a few apricots into the center from the bag you'd carried — soft-skinned and warm from where they’d been tucked in your pocket.

Keegan dropped beside you, lowering himself with a tired grunt. His weight sank heavily into the blanket, close enough that you felt the shift, but not close enough to touch. He took an apricot without asking, wiped the fuzz on his jeans, and bit in.

For a while, that was all you did. Sit. Chew. Swallow. Watch the sky through the weaving blades of corn above. The silence was almost comforting.

“They asked us to evacuate,” you said eventually, voice quiet and raw at the edges. “A few months after everything went down. They came in trucks. Told us it wasn’t safe to be here anymore. Said anyone who stayed was choosing to be forgotten.” You looked down at your hands. Dirt under your nails. Small scratches on your knuckles. You flexed them. “But my grandparents have lived on this land since they were kids. Same farmhouse, same soil, same prayers every Sunday. They weren’t going anywhere. And I wasn’t about to leave them behind just because some guy in a uniform told me to.”

Keegan didn’t respond right away. He leaned back on his hands, tilted his face up toward the sun. The light caught in the strands of his dark hair, made the blue of his eyes seem even sharper when he finally glanced at you.

“I get that,” he said, low and even. “I was eighteen when I enlisted. Barely out of high school. Didn’t even wait for the ink on my diploma to dry. Just signed up. Thought I’d see the world. Serve. Do something that mattered.” He took another bite of the fruit, chewed slowly. “I was a Marine. Before ODIN. Before it all burned.”

You looked at him. He didn’t seem lifetimes older than you now, but there was something about the way he sat — bone-tired and wary, like every inch of him had been carved out by years he didn’t talk about.

“Did you ever think it’d turn out like this?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. Just stared out at the stalks like he saw something else through them — ghosts of a world that had already crumbled.

You didn’t ask again.

Instead, you wiped your hands on your thighs, brushed crumbs of apricot from the corner of your mouth, and said, “Thanks. For earlier. I know I wasn’t easy to deal with.”

Keegan gave a short grunt that might’ve been a laugh. “Understatement of the century, kid.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “Still. You didn’t have to help.”

“Yeah, well. I’m stuck here, remember? Figured I might as well make myself useful before you try to smother me in my sleep.”

You laughed, quiet and short, and then stretched out on the blanket, arms above your head, letting the sun bake into your skin. The air smelled like warm earth and drying leaves, sweetened faintly by the apricots. For a moment, everything felt almost normal.

Keegan shifted beside you, the blanket rustling under his weight.

“Has it always just been you?” he asked after a pause.

Your eyes opened lazily, squinting up at the sky. “What do you mean?”

He scratched his jaw, glanced sideways. “I mean… anyone else around? Someone you care about? You got somebody waitin’ on you out here, kid?”

The word kid landed different that time. Less condescending. Softer, somehow. You turned your head toward him, caught the flicker of curiosity in his expression — genuine, but guarded. Like he didn’t know if he had the right to ask, but couldn’t help himself anyway.

You didn’t answer right away.

You turned your face back up to the sky, lashes fluttering against the swell of sun. It was easier than looking at him—than facing the question for what it was. You let the heat settle on your skin and inhaled deeply, as if oxygen alone could soften the ache in your chest.

“I can’t even think about that,” you said finally, voice quiet but edged. “Romance. Love. Whatever it is you’re asking about. It doesn’t matter here. My grandparents need me. They’re old, and this land is the only thing they know. They’ve got no one else. If I leave—” You trailed off and shrugged, a sharp motion against the warm ground. “Then I’m just one more person who let them be forgotten.”

Keegan was quiet for a second too long, and you could feel the tension pull taut beside you, coiling like a live wire. When he spoke, it was with a roughness that hadn’t been there before.

“You gotta live your own life, kid,” he said, the word clipped, tired. “You can’t just keep putting yourself last forever. That’s not survival. That’s slow suicide.”

You frowned, sitting up now, brushing bits of hay off your arm. “And do what, exactly?” you snapped. “Where the fuck am I supposed to find someone? Where do you think people like me go to fall in love? The ration line?”

His gaze cut to you then, sharp, but not cruel. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You sure?” you asked, your voice getting tighter, thinner. “You come in here, sleep under my roof, eat our food, help out for half a day and suddenly you’re giving life advice?”

He let out a slow breath, like he was trying hard not to let the bite creep into his voice. “North of the Liberty Wall,” he said finally. “It’s not paradise, but it’s not this. There’s no patrols breathing down your neck. No risk of being shot for walking too far from your own damn porch. No curfews. No checkpoints. It’s still broken, sure, but there’s a kind of freedom there. People date. They laugh. They live.”

You flinched, only slightly, but it was enough. He saw it. And the silence that followed dragged heavy between you, thick as the summer air.

You shook your head, eyes fixed on the crumpled blanket beneath your hand. “There was a boy,” you murmured. “Years back. I was maybe nineteen, twenty. He used to help around the farm. He was kind. Brave. I thought—” You stopped yourself, then blew out a humorless laugh. “Well. I thought a lot of things. And then one day, he shows up in Federation gray. Patch on his arm. Said it was the only way to stay safe. Said it didn’t mean anything. That he’d protect us.”

You looked up, eyes cold and distant. “Two weeks later, he watched them burn the neighbouring field. Didn’t even blink.”

Keegan didn’t say anything for a moment. His brows were drawn tight, but he didn’t speak until the silence stretched too long to ignore.

“Not everyone’s like that, kid,” he said gently. “Some people still know where the line is. Some still fight for the right things.”

“Do they?” you asked. “Because I haven’t seen them.”

“I’m right here, aren’t I?”

You looked at him then, really looked. The way his shoulders sat stiff beneath the worn flannel, the way his fingers flexed against his thigh like he wasn’t used to being still this long. His face was serious, unreadable, but his voice stayed low.

“I could get you out.”

You blinked. “What?”

“When my unit comes for me,” he said, eyes holding yours, “and they will come for me — I could get you out. Not your grandparents — we can’t make it to the wall with them. But you. I could get you north. Somewhere safer. Somewhere you could start over.”

The words hit you like a slap. You sat up straighter, heart pounding with a mix of disbelief and fury.

“You think I’d leave them?” you asked, voice sharp now, loud in the little clearing. “You think I’d just run off and start a new life somewhere while they stay here and die in the dirt?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You did. You fucking did. Think you can just throw a lifeline and make everything disappear.”

His jaw tightened. “Forget it.”

“No — go ahead. Tell me how grateful I should be, how lucky I am to be your little charity case.”

“I said forget it.” His voice cracked out like a gunshot, louder than you’d ever heard it. He pushed himself to his feet in one motion, tension bleeding from every line of his frame. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

You stared up at him, breathing hard, chest tight with something hot and cruel and unspoken.

He didn’t look at you as he turned to walk away. Just muttered under his breath, “Never mind, kid.”

His boot came down hard on the last apricot between you, crushing it into the blanket with a dull squish before he stalked off between the corn, vanishing into the rows without another word. You sat there alone, the sun heavy above you, and listened to the wind move through the stalks like a thousand whispers you didn’t want to hear.

⟡

A few days passed. The corn kept growing. The sky stayed blue. And against the odds, your grandfather began to mend.

It was a slow thing, the way his breath came easier, the coughs less chest-wracking. He could sit up by the third morning, grumble about the soup being too thin by the fourth. He still wasn’t out of bed, but you could see it — life returning in fits and starts, that same stubbornness you knew too well shining through the cracks in his frailty. Your grandmother wept once behind the shed, soft and private, her apron bunched against her mouth, but said nothing about it after.

And Keegan—

Keegan stayed.

He kept working. Fixing the fence you’d sworn couldn’t be salvaged. Feeding the livestock without needing to be told. Helping your grandmother carry buckets, lifting things with quiet precision. Still fought you on everything, though — still made you roll your eyes, still made you want to scream when he refused to back down about the proper way to fortify a trough or check for signs of rot. But he was there. Solid. Capable. And worst of all — he had planted something in you. Not quite a dream, not yet, but something just as dangerous: hope.

You hated him for that.

Because you caught yourself wondering, in the quiet hours, what the world looked like beyond the Wall. What your life might be if it wasn’t measured in chores and ration lines, in sacrifice. You wondered what your hands would feel like without blisters. What your name might sound like when it wasn’t only called in need, but in want.

And that made you sick. With guilt. With shame. Because you’d chosen this. You’d promised to stay. You were the one who didn’t run.

But still.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Your grandparents had gone to bed hours ago, the farmhouse fallen into its usual hush, all the weight of the day settled into the floorboards. You lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, a threadbare blanket tangled around your legs. The porch light still burned beyond the front window — dim and golden, filtering through the curtains like a safety net. You hadn’t turned it off in years. Couldn’t. Something about total darkness always made your chest tighten.

You heard the stairs creak, slow and hesitant.

Then Keegan padded into the room barefoot, dressed in a soft, washed-thin T-shirt and a pair of faded flannel pajama pants that looked older than both of you. His hair was messy, sticking up at strange angles, and his expression was quieter than usual, as if the night had made him smaller somehow.

“Can’t sleep either?” you asked, sitting up and drawing your knees close.

He shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah. Not really.”

You moved over instinctively, and he took the offered space beside you. The couch dipped under his weight, his thigh warm and close beside yours, and the quiet stretched between you like a thread pulled too tight.

“I owe you an apology,” he said eventually. “For before. For — all of it.”

You raised a brow. “You? Apologizing? Did you hit your head on a rake or something?”

He gave a dry huff of a laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve just been — on edge. Not knowing if my unit’s still coming. Not knowing if I’m making things worse by being here. I didn’t mean to take that out on you.”

You looked at him then, more closely. Even in the low light, you could see it — how the skin around his eyes was tight, how the shadows clung to him. Not just fatigue. Fear. Loneliness. The kind that settled in your bones when you’d gone too long without touch, without kindness, without someone looking at you and seeing you.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t an ass.”

“I’m always an ass,” he replied, voice a little softer. “But yeah. More than usual lately.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder, just a little tap, a half-hearted gesture meant to tease. But the way he tensed ever so slightly, the way his breath hitched for just a second — it told you everything. He wasn’t used to being touched. Not like that. Not without it meaning pain or orders or nothing at all.

Which was fucking rich, because you were starving too.

You tried to ignore how close he was. Tried to focus on the porch light, the faint rustle of trees beyond the window. But his warmth was radiating off him in waves, and every breath you took seemed to sync a little more with his.

You nudged him with your shoulder again, more out of habit than playfulness, trying to shake off the heaviness that clung to your conversation like dust in the air. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer, his knee now brushing yours where it hadn’t before. You should’ve shifted, should’ve drawn back, but the truth was — it felt nice. Familiar in a way that made you ache. Too many nights spent alone in that same spot on the couch, watching the porch light flicker against the glass while the rest of the world forgot you existed. And now here he was, warm and solid beside you, quiet for once.

Keegan glanced over, and his eyes lingered a moment longer than they should have. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t want things?” he asked.

You blinked, not sure if you’d heard him right. “What the hell are you on about?”

He smiled, faint and crooked. “Means you act like you’ve got everything under control. Like you don’t want more than this — more than this damn farm, this life. But I see it, kid. I’ve seen it in your face every time you look past me when I talk about the Wall.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what I can live with.”

“And you can’t live with wanting something?”

You didn’t answer, and maybe that was answer enough. The silence stretched again, thicker now, more charged. The air between you felt heavy with everything neither of you was brave enough to say.

Keegan leaned back slightly, resting one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. “You know,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your mouth, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you.”

The words made your pulse spike. They landed too suddenly, too softly, and for a moment you weren’t sure if you’d imagined them. You turned your head toward him, slow and unsure.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeated, voice low but unshaken, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you. For days now. Maybe since you bit my fucking finger back in the barn.”

You huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. Your throat was too tight. “You’ve got a real talent for choosing the worst possible time to open your mouth.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes still locked to yours, his tone dipping even further, “but I’m saying it now because I want to. Because I’m tired, and you’re tired, and if this is all we get — this night, this moment — I’d rather not waste it.”

You stared at him, trying to be angry, trying to summon that same edge you always had around him. But it slipped away, like mist between your fingers, leaving something rawer in its place. Want. Need. The horrible, aching recognition of being seen when you’d spent so long convincing yourself you were invisible.

“You really wanna do this?” you asked, voice rough.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really do.”

You opened your mouth to reply, maybe to tell him to shut up, maybe to warn him that you’d regret it, maybe to say yes. But before you could decide, he was already moving — leaning in slow, as if to give you time to pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t cautious. There was no hesitation left in him. His mouth pressed to yours with a hunger that had clearly been building in the shadows of all your arguments, a collision of tension and heat and breath. His hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb rough against your cheek, and he kissed you like someone who hadn’t touched softness in years. Like someone who wasn’t sure if he ever would again.

You kissed him back just as hard.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was nothing left between you but shared warmth and the scrape of breath. He tasted like salt and dust and something clean beneath it all, something warm. Your body leaned into his without thinking, your knees brushing, thighs flush, the whole couch groaning beneath the weight of it. His hand dropped to your waist, not demanding, just holding — like he needed the contact to stay tethered.

You broke for air, only barely, your foreheads pressed together. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. His hand was still at your jaw, thumb stroking the edge of your chin, and your own fingers clung to the fabric at his chest like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

You stayed like that for a long moment — forehead to forehead, your breath mingling, the only sound the soft creak of the couch as the house settled around you. His hand hadn’t moved from your jaw, but it loosened now, easing into something gentler, his thumb brushing across the edge of your cheek like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

But eventually, he did.

Keegan pulled back slowly, just far enough to look at you. His expression had shifted — less heat, more something else. Something careful. His eyes searched yours for a beat, and then he gave a faint exhale, almost like he was laughing at himself.

“You should get some sleep, kid,” he said, voice quieter now. Rough around the edges. “It’s late.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your hands were still fisted in the front of his shirt, and for a second, you thought about holding on a little longer. Just a little more warmth. Just a little more proof that someone saw you.

But you let him go.

He stood slowly, the couch groaning beneath the shift in weight. His silhouette moved through the dim gold of the porch light as he crossed the room, every step a soft thud against the wood floor. At the base of the stairs, he paused, one hand on the banister. You thought he might look back, say something more. Offer another fragment of comfort or tension or whatever the hell this thing between you had become.

But he didn’t.

He just disappeared up the stairs, leaving you behind in the silence.

You sat back, slowly, your fingers tingling where they’d held onto him, your mouth still warm with the memory of his. The blanket was half on the floor. The porch light burned steady.

⟡

The kitchen was warm and still, the porch light casting soft gold across the floorboards as you stood in your worn nightclothes, spooning cherry stems into your mug. You could hear the frogs outside, the low rustle of wind in the corn, that sleepy hum of the house settling into silence for the night. Everyone else was asleep. You were supposed to be, too.

But you couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop remembering.

The kettle hissed on the stove, its steam barely audible, and you watched it with glazed eyes. The cherry stems were from the last harvest, dried and kept in an old jam jar, their scent delicate and faintly sweet. You brewed them sometimes to calm your nerves. Headaches, your grandmother claimed. Nightmares, maybe. But tonight you weren’t sure anything could settle you. Not when you were still carrying the phantom weight of Keegan’s kiss on your lips, your hands, your goddamn spine. You hadn’t stopped replaying it since it happened the night before — how close he’d been, how his breath had caught when your fingers curled into his shirt, how he’d looked at you like he meant it.

And fuck, you’d wanted more. Not just the kiss, not just the heat of his mouth against yours. You’d wanted to ride him into the couch cushions and grind every ounce of control back into your body. You wanted to stop feeling like a ghost haunting her own life and instead take something. Someone. Him.

But he’d walked away. Left you curled on the couch with your heart thudding in your ears like it was trying to break free.

You reached for the kettle just as a hand clamped over your mouth.

It happened so fast your brain didn’t have time to catch up — just the weight of an arm around your chest and the thick press of a body behind you, yanking you back so hard your feet left the floor for half a second. Your mug slipped from your hand and shattered across the kitchen tile, the smell of tea mixing with adrenaline, with panic, with your own stifled scream caught beneath a stranger’s palm.

“Where is he?” the voice growled in your ear, low and sharp and unfamiliar. “Where’s Keegan Russ?”

You thrashed, trying to turn, elbowing wildly against the stranger’s chest, but he didn’t let go. He gave you a hard shake — sharp, jolting — and repeated himself, louder this time. “Where is he?”

The floor creaked.

Then more footsteps, heavier now, coming from the stairs behind you. Light burst from the hallway as your grandmother’s voice rang out, trembling and confused. “Who’s down here?”

Another creak. A shift of weight. And then—

“Ajax.”

The voice was low and unmistakably Keegan’s.

The grip on you vanished in an instant.

You stumbled forward, catching yourself on the counter, gasping for breath, head spinning. Behind you, the stranger backed off, hands up in a half-apology, his frame still blocking part of the kitchen doorway.

Keegan came into view fast, shirtless and barefoot, flannel pants slung low on his hips, his expression half panic, half fury. Behind him, your grandmother hovered near the wall, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.

The man who’d grabbed you straightened and grinned like it was nothing. “Shit, my bad,” he said, voice relaxed now. “Didn’t realize she was yours.”

Keegan didn’t look at you yet. He stepped forward, shoulders relaxing slightly, and walked straight into the stranger’s open arms. They embraced like brothers, with a quick, hard clap on the back, and then another.

“Thought you got yourself killed,” the man said. “You know how long we’ve been combing this fucking region?”

“Long enough,” Keegan replied, voice quieter now. “You scared the hell out of her.”

“She looked like she could handle herself.” The man glanced back at you, grinning like you were in on the joke. “Didn’t expect you to be hanging around in civilian clothes and sleeping with chickens.”

You didn’t say anything. Your chest was still heaving, your hands trembling slightly. You could hear your grandmother breathing fast beside the doorframe, trying to calm herself, trying to make sense of the armed man in her kitchen.

Keegan’s attention turned sharply toward her then, his voice softening. “It’s okay,” he said. “They’re my team. This is Ajax. They’re not here to hurt anyone.”

Another shadow moved through the door, this one broader. A wall of a man, easily over six feet, with a square jaw and quiet authority that filled the room before he even spoke.

“Captain Merrick,” Keegan said, acknowledging him with a nod. He stepped back from Ajax, then motioned to you and your grandmother. “This is the family that took me in. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Captain Merrick stepped forward and offered a short, respectful nod. “We appreciate what you did,” he said, voice low but clear. “You didn’t have to, but you did. That means something.”

Keegan glanced back at his team, who were starting to crowd the entryway — more soldiers, all armed, all watching everything with sharp, tactical eyes. And then he looked at you, really looked. And his voice, when he spoke again, was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“She’s the one who saved my life.”

⟡

The realization that he was really leaving didn’t hit you like a sudden blow — it came in slow waves, creeping through your veins like cold water. Your fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. You’d pressed your palms together, tucked them under your arms, curled them into the fabric of your shirt, but it didn’t matter. The tremble was inside you now, deeper than bone, and it only grew worse every time you glanced at him. He looked too much like a soldier again, already halfway gone. Already belonging to something you couldn’t follow.

You didn’t say anything as you followed him up the stairs, your footsteps muffled by the old wood, shadows stretching across the walls like long fingers. His presence filled your bedroom again, but not like before — this time he moved with quiet purpose, his breath steady, his hands practiced. The gear you’d stashed beneath the floorboards now lay out in careful rows across your quilt: the worn fatigues, flak vest, the sidearm, the boots. You hadn’t touched it since the night you’d buried it there, just in case. Just in case the Federation came.

Keegan stripped out of his sleep clothes and began dressing in silence. You watched as the softness you’d seen glimpses of — the man who sat beside you in the dark, who kissed you like he meant it — slowly disappeared beneath layers of armour and camo. He tightened his vest, slotted his sidearm into place, adjusted the strap of his knife sheath. By the time he stepped into his boots, you weren’t looking at a person anymore. You were looking at a ghost, already halfway out the door.

You stood at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself. “So this is it,” you said, and even to your own ears, the words sounded small.

Keegan looked up, paused. His hands stilled over the last strap on his thigh. He didn’t ask you what you meant. He knew. The silence between you said everything. He walked toward you, slow, steady, until he was standing right in front of you again, reaching out to cup your face with both hands. His palms were warm, his thumbs rough from calluses but gentle as they brushed against your cheeks. You hadn’t realized tears had gathered in your eyes until that moment.

“It’s not too late,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with something heavier than he could hide. “You could come with us. With me.”

Your throat closed around the words. You blinked quickly, the tears refusing to fall, refusing to move. You wanted so badly to say yes. To grab your boots, your coat, throw yourself into one of those trucks and never look back. But you’d made a promise. And out here, promises still meant something. Especially when the people you made them to were old and tired and had already lost too much.

“You know I can’t,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly against his hands. “They need me, Keegan. My grandparents — they can’t do this alone. And I can’t — I won’t — abandon them.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. When he opened them again, they were clear and quiet, but something in his jaw tightened, like he was biting down on the things he couldn’t say.

“You’re too good for your own good, kid,” he said softly, and there was no teasing in it this time. No edge. Just something close to grief. “That’s the problem with you.”

You almost laughed, but it came out as more of a broken exhale. You leaned into his touch for one final moment, pressing your cheek to his palm. Memorizing the shape of him. The warmth. The steadiness you wouldn’t have tomorrow.

Downstairs, Ajax’s voice cut through the stillness. “Clock’s ticking, Russ. You ready?”

Keegan didn’t move right away. Just dropped his hands from your face and gave you one last look before turning to grab his balaclava off the dresser.

You walked beside him down the stairs, neither of you speaking now. Outside, the world felt larger than it ever had — too many shadows, too much air, and none of it felt like yours anymore. There were armoured trucks parked just beyond the corn line, their black paint glinting under the moon. You counted four, though there were more figures than that in the field — men in gear, weapons slung across their backs, all moving with quiet, military precision.

Keegan stepped off the porch, his boots crunching against the gravel path. You followed him, your hand brushing against his once, briefly, and he didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything until you reached the edge of the field where the tall corn began again, shivering gently in the wind.

He turned to you there. The moonlight caught in his eyes, made him look younger for a second — like the boy he might’ve been once, before the world cracked open.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Instead, he leaned down and kissed you.

His lips brushed your jaw first, then your cheek, slow and reverent, and finally found your mouth like it was the last thing he’d ever let himself have. His stubble scratched your skin, rough and real, and the kiss he gave you wasn’t frantic or hungry — it was honest. Warm. Full of everything he hadn’t said out loud. Full of everything you’d never forget.

When he pulled back, his breath was shallow. He rested his forehead against yours for a beat and whispered, “I’ll be back for you, kid.”

Then he stepped away and pulled the balaclava over his face, the white of the skull grinning back at you like a warning.

And without another word, he turned and walked into the field.

You watched him until the corn swallowed him whole. Until the trucks rumbled to life and slipped back into the dark, engines fading into nothing. Until the porch light behind you flickered once and then held steady again.

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