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The doorbell rang once. No answer. Again. After a brief pause, once more. Only then did the door open, slow and reluctant. Despite it being seven in the evening, she looked as though she had just gotten out of bed, hair undone, eyes heavy as she looked up at him.
“I told you you didn’t have to come.”
That didn’t sound like ‘Do not come’. At least, not entirely. She sighed under his quiet gaze and pulled the door open wider, making space for him. She couldn’t very well leave him standing outside forever.
The apartment was a mess. Not large, but more than enough for one person—yet clothes strewn across the floor and untouched disposable containers made it feel far smaller than it was. Without comment, he took off his coat and hung it on the rack by the door. His movements were neat, almost habitual.
“Did you eat?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“…Around 1500. I think.”
She had been discharged long ago, yet she still answered in military time. He gave a short hum and, instead of asking a third question, turned toward the sink. From what was there, it wasn’t hard to guess what she had eaten. As expected. Hardly a proper meal—just enough to quiet the hunger.
It had been months since he started taking care of her like this. She, in turn, lounged on the sofa, flipping through TV channels without concern as he went through her fridge and cupboards as though it were his own place. He sorted through what needed throwing out and what needed restocking, then glanced at her.
She’d lost more weight. And judging by her complexion, she still wasn’t sleeping well.
Only after he set down something that could reasonably be called a meal did she sit up properly, reluctant but compliant. When she took the plate, he sat beside her on the sofa and looked at the TV she’d left on. A sitcom—hardly fitting the mood. He didn’t bother reaching for the remote. She chewed slowly, then spoke.
“Keegan.”
He turned his head slightly, meeting her eyes.
“I don’t know why you go through all this trouble.”
“…”
“I’m grateful. Really. But you know—you don’t have to do this.”
She hesitated as she spoke, as though something else followed unspoken. We’re not close enough for this. Keegan blinked once.
“Does it bother you. Me coming over.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then it’s not trouble.”
“…If you say so.”
After finishing what remained on her plate, she headed for the sink. The dishes had piled up long enough; at the very least, she could do this herself. She hadn’t even properly hosted him—he’d cooked instead. Keegan watched her back for a moment, then quietly began tidying the living room. By the time she returned, it looked marginally more livable.
In Keegan P. Russ’s earliest memories, she hadn’t been like this. If anything, she’d been one of the brightest in the unit. Boosting morale had come naturally to her. But after a failed operation took several comrades—and the light from her left eye—she began to change. She’d smiled then, said she was lucky it wasn’t worse. But as her limited vision became an obstacle in the field, her smiles faded. Her words thinned out soon after. Not long after, she applied for discharge. She said she was tired. No one believed it was that simple.
Finding her afterward, living as a civilian, was pure coincidence. Deciding to make sure she was doing all right required no real resolve. If someone needed help but didn’t ask, then you helped anyway. That was all. Or so he told himself. Perhaps it was because he’d trusted her on missions. Perhaps because she’d spoken to him easily, even when he rarely spoke back—and he’d never once asked if she was okay. The reason didn’t matter.
The clock read ten. Complaining that she couldn’t sleep, she lay down, and he pulled a chair to her bedside. After swallowing her pills with the water he handed her, she spoke instead of closing her eyes. Small talk—how people from the unit were doing, whether he still went to that donut shop. She asked. He answered.
She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it was easier to fall asleep when Keegan was there. Even with medication, the images usually came first—gunfire, the smell of powder, blood she couldn’t place. His steady, even voice scattered them, anchoring her in the present. More than anything, he never sounded like he was judging her. No comparisons. No reproach. Just quiet support. She didn’t understand why he did this. Too much for courtesy. Too dry for affection. She settled on guilt. Otherwise, it made no sense. And so, she never truly pushed him away.
Only once her eyelids finally closed did Keegan allow himself to look at her properly. Her wrists were thinner than he remembered. Her hair had lost its life. A small scab clung to the edge of her chapped lips. But her expression was calm. At least for now.
As he carefully brushed her hair back, almost reverent, he remembered her smile. Not the one meant to reassure others, but the real one—eyes bright, unguarded. A thought struck him without warning. When had it been? After a grueling mission, when she’d told him he’d done well. That clear, untainted laugh. A face burned into his memory. If only he could see it again—
His breath caught. Startled, he pulled his hand back as though burned. The lingering warmth in his fingers felt unfamiliar. He’d told himself he’d never crossed a line. But that thought—just now—blurred that certainty. Why did he keep coming back. Was it really just responsibility.
She slept on, undisturbed. That was a relief. He let out a quiet breath and murmured,
“…Sleep well.”
Hoping that, at least tonight, she would rest without dreams.