Keegan X Reader: Period to the Day
Finally I have an new writing piece! Haha, I still have quite a bit of other pieces that need to be edited through. And all those Parts 2s will be out when I have the time. Luckily I have a Creative Writing class in which I have a professor who is perfectly okay with us writing stuff like this. So enjoy this story!
WARNING: Talks of a woman's menstrual cycle.
Y/n kept her gaze fixed on the wall just beyond the captain’s shoulder, eyes glassy, unfocused. His voice droned on—measured, commanding, a steady cadence of mission parameters and logistical points—but she caught none of it. The words washed over her like distant static, filed away for later when the briefing notes would spell out the details in black and white. Normally, she prided herself on being sharp, the type to absorb every order without needing the paper trail. The dependable one. The so-called “teacher’s pet” of the squad.
But right now, her body had staged a quiet mutiny.
A dull pressure coiled low in her abdomen, not quite pain yet, but something insistent, a tug in her muscles that whispered of what was coming. She shifted in her chair, spine stiff against the hard backrest, hoping no one noticed the subtle movement. It wasn’t sharp enough to double her over—no, this was the beginning stage, the warning flicker before the storm. It was the kind of discomfort that clung to you like a damp chill on a field exercise: not cold enough to kill, not hot enough to sweat out, just enough to gnaw at the edges of your patience and remind you that comfort was a luxury.
Her mind circled the same thought: Please, not now.
Around her, the scrape of chairs filled the room as soldiers stood at once, boots scuffing against the concrete floor. The spell of stillness broke, and she sighed inwardly. Sitting had dulled the cramps to a bearable throb, but she knew the moment she stood, gravity would make itself known. The uterus had a way of biting down when given motion—like an animal tugging against a leash. Stand, move, and the dull ache would sharpen, flare, then eventually settle again into a simmer once her body accepted the routine.
She rose with the others, careful to control her posture, but she felt it instantly—that subtle downward pull inside, the traitorous reminder of biology she had no command over. And with it came the creeping dread: she hadn’t slipped a pad on yet. The barracks were half a compound away, and if the blood decided to make its presence known now, she’d be stuck crossing open ground in uniform with nowhere to hide. A red stain wasn’t just humiliating; here, it was a signal flare. Trained eyes around her were conditioned to spot blood instantly, to react to it with urgency. They wouldn’t see a period. They’d see a wounded soldier.
The men here knew about periods—biologically, theoretically. They knew the clinical words for it, could recite the fact that cramps were “uncomfortable.” But they didn’t know. They would never know the way it stole concentration mid-briefing, or how it drained energy before a mission, or how it left you dreading simple things like standing up from a chair. They didn’t know how a body could sabotage itself for a week straight, bleeding and aching and misfiring with hormone shifts that left you bone-tired one minute and irritable the next.
Sure, men had their pain—the kind of pain that came with a sudden impact, sharp and temporary, dropping them to their knees. But it ended. They could walk it off, curse, laugh, and move on. Women didn’t get that mercy. This was slow, steady, inescapable. Blood and lining at a “healthy rate,” as the textbooks would say, but there was nothing healthy about dragging yourself through drills while it felt like a vice tightened inside you.
She fell in step with the others, face neutral, mask in place. Outwardly, she was the soldier, no different than anyone else leaving the briefing room. Inside, she was calculating distance, speed, and the odds of making it back to her quarters without biology betraying her.
That was soldiering, too: fighting battles no one else could see, carrying on as if nothing was wrong, even when everything in your body insisted otherwise.
By the time Y/n crossed into the quieter section of the compound, where the library and rec room sat side by side, her body made the decision for her. The slow ache in her stomach turned sharp, and she froze mid-stride as warmth bloomed beneath her fatigues. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, shoulders tightening as though bracing against incoming fire. No one lingered in the corridor—no chatter, no boots echoing on the concrete—but her cheeks still flushed crimson. Anger curled hot in her chest, not at any enemy, but at the betrayal of her own body.
She clenched her fists until the knuckles whitened, then forced herself to breathe. A furtive glance over her shoulder confirmed she was alone before she slipped one hand down, pressing against the fabric of her pants with a soldier’s precision—checking damage, assessing the risk. Relief came in a thin, shaky exhale. Dry. For now.
There was no time to waste. The women’s barracks were still a stretch away, but she knew a shortcut: cut through the men’s wing, save minutes, maybe save herself a humiliating explanation. Even so, the walk itself became an ordeal. Blood in your underwear wasn’t just unpleasant—it was a constant reminder with every step, like wearing wet clothes that clung and rubbed raw. Worse still, there was no disguising the shift in gait it forced. She tried to walk as though nothing had changed, but every movement felt studied, artificial.
Men passed her in the hall, nodding casually, eyes flicking over her in that soldier’s way of assessing without really looking. She nodded back, face carefully neutral, even as her stomach twisted. Do they see it? Is it obvious? The thought repeated like the hammer of a firing pin. But no one paused, no one frowned, and she carried on, pulse steadying as the female barracks came into sight.
Her relief was sharp and private. She swiped her ID card so quickly the reader gave a protesting beep before unlocking. The door swung shut behind her, shutting out the noise of the compound, and she let her mask slip for the first time. Her hands moved with the efficiency of drill—clean underwear, pad from the neatly folded supply in her closet, everything laid out in seconds.
She darted back into the hall, boots striking the floor with clipped urgency, and slid into the shared washroom. The space was divided—rows of sinks, shower stalls, toilet stalls—but thankfully empty at this hour. She locked herself into one, tugging down the soiled uniform pieces with a grimace. The blood was there, a dark stain she’d hoped to avoid, stark against the fabric. She cleaned herself quickly with toilet paper, wincing at the sticky warmth, before slipping into the fresh underwear. The pad’s adhesive crackled faintly as she pressed it into place, wings folded tight. The simple barrier felt like armor, a fragile reassurance against further embarrassment.
Before leaving, she wiped down the worst of the blood from the ruined pair, flushing the tissue away with the mechanical churn of the toilet. Out in the open again, she wrapped the underwear in paper towel, tucking it under her arm as though it were contraband, and slipped back to her room.
The laundry basket swallowed the bundle, but her expression tightened, nose wrinkling. A soldier could wade through mud, blood, sweat, and worse without blinking—but this always managed to feel different. A battlefield hidden inside her own body, fought in silence, and dismissed as “just part of it” by anyone who’d never have to endure it.
She sat on the edge of her bunk for a moment, elbows on her knees, breathing steady. The cramps were still there, low and insistent, but at least now she was armed for the fight.
The discomfort that had been nagging at Y/n’s abdomen all day suddenly shifted—no longer the dull, teasing ache she could tolerate, but a white-hot spike of pain that felt like someone was carving her out from the inside with a dull blade. The cramp hit so sharply she gasped and folded forward instinctively, arms cinching tight around her middle as if she could hold the pain in place. It was no comfort. Muscles spasmed beneath her skin, twisting and tearing like barbed wire being yanked through her gut.
A low, helpless sound broke from her throat as she slid onto her side, curling tight on the lower bunk. The thin mattress did little to soften the pressure of the metal frame beneath, and the stale barracks air seemed heavier now, clinging to her skin like another weight she couldn’t shed.
Her eyes flicked to the top bunk, empty. God, how she wished her roommate was here. At least then she could beg for backup—someone to run to the medical ward, grab her the Advil she wasn’t allowed to keep in her locker. Regulations were written for firefights and triage: no unlogged meds, no unknowns in the bloodstream that could interfere with treatment. Logical on paper. But in moments like this, the logic felt like a cruel joke. She didn’t need morphine or blood typing. She just needed one damn pill to take the edge off the cramping that had hijacked her body.
Instead, she had nothing.
Another cramp rolled through, a slow twisting vice that dragged a broken whine from her throat. She clenched her teeth, furious at herself for the sound, but there was no holding it in. Goddamn it. She squeezed her eyes shut, replaying all the excuses she could reach for—how she’d slacked off on leave, skipped her usual runs and calisthenics. Exercise was the only thing that seemed to keep her cycle in check, but three weeks of lounging, sleeping in, letting her body rest had undone her discipline. Now she was paying the price.
Her phone lit up on the nightstand, screen flashing with notifications. Messages stacked one after another, but she didn’t bother reaching for it. Out there, she was the soldier, always answering, always dependable. In here, she was a body at war with itself, pinned down by cramps that made her want to curl smaller and smaller until she vanished. The phone could wait. The whole world could damn well wait. She had nothing on the schedule until tomorrow’s mission anyway.
Another wave of pain seized her abdomen, sharper this time, dragging a curse out from between clenched teeth. She shifted, hoping to find some angle where the ache would loosen its grip, but the motion only provoked it further. Her body rebelled with a violent stab, and she bit back a hiss, nails pressing crescents into her palms.
The phone began to ring now, vibrating against the wood of the nightstand with an insistent rattle. Someone was actually calling her after the unanswered texts. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the noise away. Each shrill tone was a reminder that she was unreachable, unwilling, locked in a private battle no one could see. She wanted the ringing to stop, wanted the silence back—then, when it did, she hated that too. The quiet pressed in around her, as heavy and suffocating as the cramps themselves.
Curled on her bunk, she let out a bitter laugh that came out more like a groan. A soldier could march for miles under load, run through gunfire, drag a bleeding comrade to cover. But one week every month, all of that training meant nothing. Her greatest enemy wasn’t out in the field. It was here, in her own body, gutting her from the inside.
AA knock at the door snapped Y/n out of her cocoon of misery. She didn’t move, didn’t answer—just narrowed her eyes at the ceiling, jaw tight. Whoever it was could go to hell. All she needed was stillness. Stillness and time. The pain always eased eventually, tapering down into something she could manage. If she relaxed, maybe it would pass. Maybe it wouldn’t feel like a serrated knife sawing at her insides.
She whimpered despite herself, clutching her stomach tighter.
The knock came again. Persistent. Then silence. For a second, she almost smiled. Good. Finally gave up. But the reprieve was short-lived. A faint, mechanical beep sounded against the doorframe—a denial tone. She didn’t need to see it to know what it meant: someone had tried swiping into her room. Male ID. The system barred them automatically from women’s quarters.
Her lips pressed into a thin, angry line. She wanted to roll away, put her back to the door, shut the world out. But the thought of moving made her stomach clench harder, so she stayed where she was—coiled, glaring at nothing, listening.
Muffled voices filtered through the wall. A woman’s tone joined the man’s, higher pitched, soft but insistent. A second later, the electronic lock gave its grudging click, and the door creaked open. Whoever it was slipped inside and shut it quickly, the thud muffled against the barracks air.
Y/n didn’t lift her head. Didn’t ask. She didn’t care. Let them stand there, let them stew. Her body was already wringing her out like a wet rag, each cramp punishing her for the simple crime of not being pregnant this month. Whoever had designed the female body deserved worse than this.
A low, familiar voice cut through the haze. “I called you.”
Her eyes cracked open, lids heavy, and she found Keegan crouched beside her bunk. His mask was on, shadows carved deep into the lines of his gear, but his voice was unmistakable—quiet, steady, threaded with that calm steel she always leaned on. She grunted in reply, nothing more.
“Are you sick?” He peeled a glove off, calloused fingers brushing her forehead with a medic’s efficiency. No fever. His hand lingered only a moment before dropping to rest on his knee. His eyes, blue and sharp, didn’t waver. “Why aren’t you answering me?”
It was a fair question. She usually answered him before he finished speaking—always quick to tell him things, always eager for the comfort of his quiet listening. She loved the way he never interrupted, how he spoke sparingly, like every word was chosen with care. On missions, he kept her close. Off duty, he stayed steady. Reliable. Her anchor.
This time, though, she could only grit her teeth, body curling tighter. The knife-twist inside her abdomen pulsed again, hot and merciless, dragging a hiss out of her. “Hurts…” The word tore itself free in a drawn-out hiss, her bitchy defiance collapsing into something softer, needier.
Keegan stayed crouched, steady as a rock beside her bunk, watching her with the patient intensity of a man who never rushed to fill silence. His presence alone grounded her, even as the pain tried to tear her apart from the inside.
“How’d you get hurt?” Keegan’s voice was low, edged with concern, as his sharp eyes scanned her body for injuries. His gaze lingered on her posture—curled tight, hand pressed to her abdomen—as if trying to piece together the story from the way she lay on her bunk.
They’d only been together a month. Missions, training, long hours on base—that was the rhythm they’d shared so far. This, though, was his first introduction to seeing her like this: wrecked not by bullets or bruises, but by something far more ordinary and yet every bit as vicious.
She bit her lip, face heating, before whispering, “Period.”
The word came out like a confession, though she knew it shouldn’t have. One of her old teachers had drilled into her that periods should be normalized, spoken about without shame. But that was theory. In practice, admitting it still flushed her cheeks red, especially saying it to him.
Keegan didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil. He gave a short grunt, his version of an acknowledgment, blue eyes steady on her. Silence stretched for a beat before he crouched closer, a gloved hand brushing her shoulder. “What do you need?”
Her pride faltered, pain cutting through it like shrapnel. “Pills. Pain meds. Please. And… a warm pack.” Her voice cracked on the plea.
“Alright.” He squeezed her shoulder gently before rising to his full height. “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”
A weak laugh broke from her. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He made it two steps toward the door before pausing. “I need your ID.”
“It’s in my pocket,” she muttered, too drained to move.
Keegan stood still for a moment, as if waiting her out. When she didn’t budge, he exhaled softly through his mask and returned to her side. With careful precision, he reached into her back pocket and slid the card free. Her lips curved in a small, mischievous grin despite the pain, and he shook his head at her before disappearing into the hall.
Time stretched like an elastic band in his absence. Each minute felt heavy, pulled taut by the cramps grinding at her insides. To Keegan, with his long stride and no-nonsense pace, the trip across base probably took no more than fifteen minutes—signing out meds under her name, tracking down a heat pack—but to her it dragged on like an eternity.
When the door finally clicked open again, she was sprawled on her bunk, pale but theatrically draping an arm across her eyes. “What took you so long?” she groaned, her tone somewhere between genuine complaint and mock drama.
Keegan just stared at her for a beat, unimpressed, before pressing the pills into her palm and shoving her water bottle into the other. “Had to explain why I was signing out meds for someone who wasn’t me,” he said simply.
She hummed, popping the pills into her mouth and holding the water there for a second before swallowing, then chasing it with another long sip. With a sigh, she collapsed back onto the mattress like a dying soldier reenacting her final scene.
Keegan shook his head and tossed the heat pack onto her stomach. She snatched it up like a starving seagull on a french fry, pressing it against her abdomen with something close to reverence. The warmth spread almost instantly, easing the cramps like a tide pulling back from the shore. Relief softened her face, tension draining from her shoulders.
Keegan lowered himself to the floor beside her bunk, settling with one leg stretched out, the other bent with his arm resting casually across his knee. His other hand toyed absently with a strap on his gear, mask tilted toward her. He didn’t say much—he rarely did—but his presence was grounding. Quiet, steady, solid.
Y/n let out a slow breath, the heat soothing her, the meds already promising relief. The pain wasn’t gone, not yet, but with Keegan there—silent sentinel at her side—it felt manageable. For the first time all day, she didn’t feel like she was fighting her body alone.
“I’ve got a mission tomorrow,” Y/n said suddenly, breaking the quiet. Her voice was soft at first, like she was only testing if he was still listening, but then she shifted, wanting to talk—wanting to fill the silence with anything other than the steady throb in her stomach.
Keegan hummed low in his throat, tilting his head slightly as if to say go on. He didn’t need to push her; he never did. He let her decide what to share, and when she did, he absorbed every word.
“Two weeks in no-man’s land,” she went on, sighing, “intel gathering. They’re sending us to the coast. The beach. Haven’t been near one in a long time.”
At that, his head turned, mask catching the dim light. His pale eyes fixed on her. “The beach… covered in debris?” The way he said it was flat, skeptical, but not mocking—just Keegan cutting through her wistfulness with the blunt edge of reality.
She chuckled and nodded, her gaze lifting to the underside of the top bunk as though she could picture the ruined shoreline there. “Yeah. Apparently there’s some commander tucked away out there. We’re supposed to watch him, track movement, all the usual. It should be straightforward.” She smiled, faint but genuine, then looked back at him. “I wasn’t exactly hanging onto every word in the briefing.”
That earned her the smallest twitch in the corner of his eyes—his version of amusement.
“Pretty sure it’s just: sneak in, spy on the guy, come back,” she added with a laugh.
“For two weeks?” Keegan asked. He wasn’t doubting her so much as weighing the length, running the numbers in his head.
She gave a lopsided grin, heat pack still pressed to her abdomen. “Two weeks of fun.”
His brow arched ever so slightly, the faintest tilt of disbelief. Fun, he seemed to say without needing the word.
“Okay, maybe not that much fun,” she admitted quickly, “but better than sitting around here training day in and day out. Or worse, running into another firefight.” Her tone softened, almost thoughtful. “Sometimes the ground’s better than the beds here, anyway.”
Keegan’s head tilted again. “You don’t like your bed?”
“They suck,” Y/n groaned, throwing her free arm up for emphasis. “Mattresses are paper-thin. You feel every single bar digging into you all night. Then they expect us to roll out at five a.m. like we weren’t just sleeping on scrap metal.” She stretched the word ugh with mock despair, her voice echoing faintly against the cinderblock walls.
He caught her flailing hand before it clipped him in the face, lowering it gently. “I don’t think the beds are that bad,” he said simply.
Her head whipped toward him in disbelief. “How! They’re the worst. I’d rather cut wood and build my own frame than sleep on this junkyard special.”
He only shrugged, calm as ever.
“No, I don’t buy that.” Determination sparked in her eyes. She wriggled off her bunk, standing between his long legs where he sat on the floor. “Go on. Lay down. Prove it.” Her arms folded across her chest in challenge.
Keegan sighed, quiet but audible, and pushed himself up. Without protest, he lowered onto her neatly made bed, still in full gear, arms folded across his chest. He lay there flat, staring up at the ceiling like a man awaiting judgment.
Y/n’s smirk grew as she watched his expression change. His eyes shifted from placid boyfriend humoring her to what the hell, she’s right in seconds. He sat up, then swung his legs over the side, pressing his gloved hands down into the mattress, testing its thinness. His gaze cut back to her. “This isn’t like mine.”
Her brows drew together. “All the beds in the barracks are the same.”
He shook his head slightly. “Not ours. Task Force STALKER’s quarters are separate.”
Her lips parted in mock offense. “I knew you had your own section, but you mean to tell me you’ve got better beds too?” She narrowed her eyes, leaning closer. “What’s next—you gonna say you get chocolate bars, too?”
His eyes glinted, the smallest spark of dry humor there. “Sometimes.”
She gasped, hand flying dramatically to her chest before she swung a playful punch at him. He caught it easily, hand closing around her fist, and with a gentle tug he pulled her against him.
She landed in his chest, warmth radiating through his tac vest. His steady heartbeat thudded beneath the layers, grounding her as much as the heat pack had. Keegan said nothing—he rarely needed to—but his silence wasn’t empty. It was weighty, attentive, the kind of quiet that told her he was listening, that he liked listening, that her words mattered.
And she kept talking, even as the cramps gnawed at her from the inside, because it didn’t hurt quite as much with him there.
“It’s not fair,” Y/n muttered, her voice pitched with equal parts complaint and weariness. “You guys get better everything. Better beds, better food, even better missions. We barely ever get sent into no-man’s-land.”
Keegan had his arms around her now, steadying her like an anchor. His gloved hands slid from her elbows down to her forearms, grounding her against his chest. “Is that really a bad thing?” His tone was level, but not dismissive—just Keegan being Keegan, nudging her to think instead of feeding her frustration.
“It’s boring here.” She frowned, leaning into him, stubborn as ever.
“Mmm.” He hummed low, the sound reverberating against her ear as he rocked her side to side in a slow, unconscious motion. It was the closest thing to a lullaby she was likely to get out of him.
Her eyes narrowed suddenly, thought cutting through her crankiness. “Wait a second. How did you even get in here? Men’s IDs don’t open women’s rooms.”
“I asked someone to let me in,” he answered simply, rocking never stopping.
“Oh…” Y/n fell quiet for a moment, then her curiosity sparked again. “Who?”
“I don’t know her name.” He shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
“What did she look like?” Y/n pressed, her nosiness outweighing her cramps.
His pale brows lifted behind the mask, but he indulged her anyway. “Blonde hair with brown streaks. Taller than you. Brown eyes.”
“Mia,” Y/n muttered with a scowl. “Figures. I don’t like her.”
“Oh?” Keegan tilted his head slightly.
“She’s a petty little princess. Her dad’s a commander here. Acts like she owns the place.” Y/n shuddered, curling her lip. “I’d love nothing more than to rip that smug smile right off her face.”
Keegan gave the smallest shake of his head, a wordless you’re impossible.
“She’s a bitch,” Y/n added flatly, punctuating it with a yawn.
Keegan let it pass, eyes flicking toward the door. “Where’s your roommate?”
“No idea.” She rolled onto her back with a wince, then contradicted herself. “Think she’s in the training yard. Knife drills, probably. I was going to go, but I had that briefing. Why?”
“If you want a better sleep, I can get you into STALKER’s barracks,” he said, quiet but firm.
Y/n frowned, uneasy. “I’m not supposed to be over there. And I don’t want to be hard to find.”
“It’ll be fine. No one there will tattle.” His tone held a finality that told her the decision was already made. He caught her hand in his, warm even through the gloves.
“You sure?” she asked, shuffling her feet, nervousness creeping in.
“You can sleep in my room.” He shrugged, as though it was obvious.
“What about your roommate?”
“Of course you don’t.” She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Just let me grab my gear—”
“I’ll move it later. You look tired.” His voice softened by a fraction, enough to make her pause.
“You sure? Because I can—”
“It’s fine, Y/n.” His eyes met hers, steady and unreadable, before he opened the door.
He didn’t let go of her hand the whole walk across base. To her, it felt awkward—too many eyes, too much risk of someone catching the gesture and whispering about it later. Dating on base was still a concept that rubbed her the wrong way; years of drilled-in rules made her instinctively duck her head whenever they passed someone in the hall. She tried to hide her face, pressing closer to him.
Keegan noticed—he always noticed—but he didn’t say a word. He never called her out for things like that, never pressed unless it truly mattered. His silence was not neglect but acceptance, quiet understanding wrapped in discipline.
When they reached the STALKER wing, two guards stood stiff at the doors. One stepped forward, blocking their way. “She with you?” His voice was clipped, all business.
Keegan nodded once, pulling her ID from his vest pocket—he hadn’t bothered to give it back earlier. He handed it over. The guard scanned it, eyes flicking to Y/n with measured suspicion. Her stomach knotted, suddenly feeling like she was trespassing on forbidden ground.
Finally, the guard handed the card back. “Don’t go poking around,” he muttered before stepping aside.
Inside, the difference hit her immediately. The corridors were brighter, the walls cleaner, lined with offices and briefing rooms that spoke of authority rather than clutter. She stuck close to Keegan, acutely aware of every person they passed. His pace never faltered, his grip on her hand steady, until they reached the barracks section.
He swiped his ID, the lock clicked, and he held the door open for her.
His room was simple, but leagues ahead of hers: one bed, not two, with a mattress that actually looked like it had depth to it. The floor was clear, everything organized with military precision. Even the air smelled different—cleaner, sharper, like the faint scent of gun oil mixed with detergent.
Keegan released her hand and crossed to the closet, pulling out a folded blanket and tossing it neatly onto the bed. “You can sleep here. If you need more, take the blanket.” He glanced at her, eyes sharp. “Stay put. You won’t be able to get back in without me.”
Y/n didn’t answer right away. She sat on the edge of his bed, pressing the heat pack against her stomach, sinking into the unexpected comfort of the mattress beneath her. Relief softened her face, and for the first time all day, her body seemed to let go of some of its fight.
She looked up at him and smiled faintly. “Thanks, Kee.”
Keegan just hummed, lowering himself to the chair against the wall, mask tilted her way. He didn’t say it aloud—he rarely did—but he liked hearing her voice, liked the rhythm of her chatter filling the silence. And tonight, he liked knowing she’d finally get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow.
“Do you need anything besides your gear from your room?” Keegan asked after a moment of silence, settling deeper into the chair. He crossed one leg over the other, posture relaxed but his eyes fixed steadily on her, reading every twitch and shift.
Y/n hesitated, fiddling with the edge of the heat pack. “Oh… yeah. Just period stuff. Pads. And hand sanitizer.”
His brows knit faintly behind the mask. “Hand sanitizer?”
“It’s unscented,” she explained quickly, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug. “All women carry it. You don’t want to smell like blood in the field. Easy way to tip someone off.”
Keegan nodded slowly, processing that, as if filing it away into one of the quiet compartments of his mind where he stored intel he didn’t quite understand but trusted mattered.
“What’s your job on the team tomorrow?” he asked. His tone was even, but the intent was clear: make sure she was ready.
Y/n winced, biting her lip before answering with a sheepish smile. “Didn’t catch all of it. I’ll probably get told on the chopper.” She laughed lightly, though the sound rang thin. Sitting there on his bed, boots still on, shoulders hunched, she looked awkward—like she wasn’t entirely convinced she belonged in his space.
Keegan’s eyes tracked the tension in her posture. “Did you eat?”
“Not yet…” She shook her head, sighing. “Don’t think I want to. If I put anything down, it might come right back up.”
He stayed quiet, but his gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t press, so she filled the silence herself, words tumbling out in the way they always did when her nerves itched.
“Strong cramps don’t mix with food sometimes. I’ve thrown up from my period before—plenty of times. Mostly when I was younger.” Her voice softened, as though admitting a secret. “Once, I actually lost it for a couple months.”
Keegan’s head tilted slightly, a crease forming between his brows. He’d always thought periods came every month, regular as clockwork.
Catching his look, Y/n gave him a tired smile. “If a woman’s body isn’t healthy enough to keep a baby alive, it won’t waste the energy. No egg, no period. My body was basically saying: don’t even bother.” She adjusted the heat pack and sighed. “I was in the field for three months, eating scraps, pushing way too hard, everyone around me sick. My body knew it couldn’t handle more.”
“Oh.” His reply was soft, his gaze drifting briefly toward the window. Outside, the clouds hung low and heavy over the base, gray smudges of late autumn pressing the horizon.
“I can’t decide if I liked it or not,” she admitted after a moment, voice quieter. “I was sick the whole time, but… no bleeding. No cramps.” She kicked her boots off the edge of the bed with a thunk.
Before she could even think about moving, Keegan rose, scooped them up, and slid them neatly into the corner of his closet. The act was simple, wordless, but carried the same quiet care as if he’d patched a wound. He sat back down in the chair without comment.
“No.” She shook her head, correcting herself. “I hated it. When it came back, it hit so hard I was throwing up for two mornings straight.”
Keegan studied her, silent as ever, the faint dip of his head showing he was listening. His eyes flicked once to the clock on the wall before he stood. “I’ll get your things now. Stay here. You won’t get back in without me.”
She frowned, shifting against the mattress. “How are you going to—”
He lifted her ID card between two fingers, the lamplight catching its glossy edge. That shut her up instantly.
“Okay,” she murmured, sheepish, settling back against the pillow as he opened the door. The sound of his boots faded down the hall, leaving her alone in the quiet, with nothing but the steady hum of the base outside and the lingering warmth he’d left behind.
When Keegan finally returned, his boots thudding softly against the concrete floor, Y/n was stretched flat on her back across his bed. She looked out of place there—gear still half on, arms folded loosely over her stomach, her face drawn with discomfort. Her eyes weren’t closed, though; they were pinned to the ceiling, unfocused, like she was trying to stare down the cramps gnawing at her.
Keegan set her things down on the chair beside his desk. Pads stacked neatly, sanitizer set just off to the side, her folded gear placed with care as though he was arranging a kit for deployment. Everything in its place, ready for her when she woke. His eyes flicked back to her, silent, observing.
“You want food?” he asked at last, voice quiet but firm. She’d refused earlier, but he asked again anyway. He’d rather risk her throwing it up than let her face tomorrow on an empty stomach.
She shook her head. “I’m good. I’ll wake up early and eat before the chopper.” She turned her head, managing a small smile. “Your bed’s nicer than mine.”
That tugged a faint, rare twinkle into his pale eyes. “I know.” A low chuckle slipped out as he bent to unlace his boots. Each movement was precise, almost ritual—boots set neatly in his closet, followed by the careful removal of his tac vest, rifle harness, gloves. Each piece disappeared into its place as if the weight of the day was being stripped away layer by layer.
“Where are you going to sleep?” she asked, voice tentative as her gaze tracked him.
He paused, considering. “Depends. Can you sleep tonight?” His meaning was clear—she looked stiff, restless, far from comfort.
“I can.” She forced a smile, nervous but trying.
“Then I’ll sleep with you.” His tone was matter-of-fact, no hesitation.
Her head snapped up. “Are—are you serious? Keegan, I can just go back to my room—”
He glanced over, voice dry. “You’ve shared a bed with other men before.”
Her face flared crimson. “I—no—I haven’t—you can’t just—” She buried her face in her hands with a groan. “Uuuuugh!”
A rare smile ghosted across his lips. He tugged his mask free, setting it down on the desk. “Not like that. I meant for warmth. You and Logan shared once, didn’t you? In winter, when it was cold.”
Y/n peeked at him through her fingers, her gaze catching on the mess of hair flattened from his mask. “Y-yeah… it was freezing. Only time.” Her chest fluttered uneasily. She liked seeing his face, liked hearing him talk more than usual—but it also made her stomach twist with nerves that had nothing to do with cramps.
“Then it’s not a problem.” He shrugged, as if it was the simplest solution in the world. Without another word, he pulled off his fatigues, switching into gray joggers and a dark t-shirt. His movements were efficient, unbothered. He tossed her a folded sweater and her pajama bottoms. “Here. Change.”
Her cheeks went hot again, but he turned his back, giving her space. She hurried out of her day clothes and into the soft fabric, tugging the sweater down around her thighs. “Okay,” she said quietly.
He turned, gave her a brief nod, then guided her gently to sit. His hand was steady on her shoulder as he nudged her down into the mattress. The blankets were drawn over her, and then another tossed on top—extra weight, extra warmth. He slid in beside her, settling on his back with his arms folded loosely across his chest, but his head turned toward her.
She stared at the ceiling again, eyes wide, clearly too restless to drift. He noticed.
“Tell me about your family.” His voice was low, coaxing.
Her eyes cut toward him, brows rising. She’d told him fragments before, scattered details. Never the whole picture.
“Come on,” he pressed softly, elbow nudging her. “I want to know.”
“Okay…” She took a breath, eyes softening as she thought where to start. “I’ve got three older brothers, a younger brother, and a younger sister.” Her voice steadied as she went on. “All my brothers joined the military after ODIN. Except the oldest—he vanished. No MIA tag, no KIA confirmation. He’s just… gone.” She sighed.
Keegan hummed, the sound low and encouraging.
“My sister’s a nurse, civilian side. My parents were in Austin when ODIN hit.” Her tone flattened, rehearsed, grief long dulled into fact. “They’re gone.” She drew in a slow breath, then smiled faintly. “We had a dog once. Roadkill.”
Keegan blinked, turning on his side, interest flickering. “Roadkill?”
“We found him as a puppy eating roadkill. I was thirteen.” She chuckled, the memory warming her tone. “He got old and fat and died of it, I think. My sister swears he was perfectly healthy, just age catching up. Haven’t had a dog since.”
“Mmm. We’ve got Riley,” Keegan said quietly, his eyes watching hers.
Her face lit in a grin. “Oh yeah. Logan and Hesh loved bragging about him—like he was their kid.” She yawned, curling onto her side to face him. “I like dogs. Couldn’t be a handler though. Would kill me if one died. But I’d love to have one. Cats though? Evil. Selfish little things.”
A corner of Keegan’s mouth twitched. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Did you know they think we’re just weird, ugly cats? They bring us food because they think we’re bad hunters.” Her eyes were half-closed, voice lilting with sleepiness.
He smiled faintly, though she didn’t see it.
“Sleeping yet?” he murmured.
He exhaled through his nose, then wrapped an arm firmly around her waist, tugging her into his chest. She froze, face heating, but his voice stayed even. “What’s your favorite animal?”
“Really?” Her words were muffled against his shirt.
“I don’t know…” She hesitated, the rhythm of his breathing steadying her own. “Dogs, but maybe falcons. They’re strange. Strong.” Her voice grew softer, trailing into thought.
His hand began rubbing slow circles across her back, steady, calming, lulling her further under. She drifted mid-sentence, words dissolving into silence. He looked down once, finding her slack against him, breath deep and even, finally asleep.
Keegan closed his eyes too, content. He didn’t need to say it aloud—he liked listening to her. Even when the words ran in circles, even when she complained, even when she rambled herself into sleep.
