i write reviews and reactions about everything really (kpop, kdramas, netflix, movies, liverpool fc) (and as you can see im a huge sucker for kyungsoo)
Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?
Credit goes to @gloomwitchwrites and this specific post for inspiring this fic!
If you love Simon “Ghost” Riley X AFAB or Fem!Reader, you will love this series.
Even if you don’t, I’m certain that this historical romance will be a wonderful delight.
It’s a slow burn following two souls who want to give their hearts to someone who wants them, will protect them, and love them for who they are, not what they can do or get out of them.
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summary ; simon sees you perform for the first time.
words ; 1.3k
warnings ; none! heavy fluff & longing, happy relationship (God knows simon needs one), mentions of blood/soldier exhaustion (brief).
Simon doesn’t go home after the deployment.
He doesn’t even think about it. Not the flat with the creaking floorboards, not the half-drunk bottle of whiskey he left in the cabinet.
His boots are still caked in dust. His body aches in a thousand bruised, silent ways. But there’s only one place his mind has been for weeks.
And it isn’t four walls and a bed.
It’s you.
He keeps the note you wrote him in the inner pocket of his vest — the pink post-it, curling at the edges now, with the date and time scribbled in your soft handwriting:
“Opening night, 7PM. I know you probably won’t come. But I hope you do. Gosh I hope you do.”
He hasn’t read anything else since.
The driver doesn’t question him when he gives the address. Doesn’t ask why a soldier dressed in full military gear, mask still pulled over his face like a shield, is asking to be dropped off at a theater downtown instead of the nearest safehouse.
Simon doesn’t explain.
He just holds the post-it in his gloved hand and closes his eyes, letting the hum of the engine blur into nothing.
He arrives just as the lights dim.
The theater is already buzzing with the soft rustle of silk gowns and tailored suits. Voices whisper behind raised programs, perfumes clash in a hush of old luxury. The red velvet of the lobby melts into shadow, and Simon slips past the ushers like a ghost, moving down the side aisle until he can linger near the back, unnoticed. Watching.
He keeps the mask on.
He always does.
But tonight, it feels heavier. More permanent. Like a barrier between this world — your world — and the one he comes from.
Then the curtain rises.
And everything goes still.
He sees you before the spotlight does.
A silhouette, graceful, poised, head bowed slightly like you’re listening to something only you can hear.
And then the music starts.
And Simon forgets how to breathe.
You move like wind. Like water. Like light. Your arms sweep and your legs fold and extend in perfect time with the music, and he realizes — slowly, painfully — that this is the first time he’s ever really seen you.
He’s seen you curled in bed, laughing at old movies. He’s seen you in sweaters, sleepy and beautiful, curled under his arm. He’s seen you with tears in your eyes when he told you he had to leave again.
But this—
You, dancing?
You’re something else entirely.
You’re divine.
And he can’t look away.
Every time you leap, his heart lurches with you.
Every spin has him breathless. He watches your chest rise and fall, your muscles tighten and release, your whole body telling stories without ever saying a word.
He thinks about how many nights he spent on cold ground dreaming of this.
Of you.
When the final note fades, and the curtain draws to a close, the applause explodes like thunder.
But Simon stays still.
Because your name is caught in his throat.
Backstage is colder. Sharper. The silence between dressing rooms hums with exhaustion and post-performance haze.
You sit alone beneath the glare of your mirror lights, makeup slightly smeared, bobby pins still clinging to your bun.
You had hoped — maybe, stupidly — that he would be here.
You tried not to look, but your eyes still glanced at the wings—just in case. Just in case he had come. Just in case he was already there, and you hadn’t noticed.
You waited longer than you should have after the curtain call. Danced your heart out hoping maybe, maybe, someone was watching.
But now?
Now the adrenaline is gone.
And the absence aches.
You bite the inside of your cheek and stare at your reflection, wondering if he even remembered. Wondering if he even made it back.
You whisper, to no one at all, “You should’ve seen me tonight.”
Your voice is barely a breath.
Then, behind you—
“I did.”
Your whole body freezes.
You turn so fast your chair screeches back against the tile.
And there he is.
Framed by the dressing room doorway, tall and broad and solid, still in his deployment gear, mask hiding most of his face but not the eyes—not those eyes.
God.
Those eyes.
You stand so fast you almost stumble. “Simon—”
But you can’t finish. You can’t move.
Because he came.
He made it.
And in his band a bouquet of lilies.
White, delicate, perfect.
Your favorite.
“Sorry I’m late ,” he whispers, breathless. “I had to buy the flowers.”
A trembling laugh escapes you—half relief, half disbelief—as the weight of missing him finally cracks open.
“I didn’t want to wait,” Simon says quietly. His voice is tired. Raw. He sounds like he’s been swallowing emotion for hours. “Didn’t want to waste a second not seeing you. Not like that.”
You blink fast, tears building before you can stop them. “You came straight from the airport?”
He nods. “Didn’t even take the mask off.”
You laugh, soft and shaky, stepping closer. “Gosh, Simon, you saw the whole thing?”
He doesn’t speak right away.
Just looks at you like he’s seeing the stars for the first time.
“Yeah,” he says eventually, voice low. “I saw everything.”
And then, finally, he crosses the space between you. Sets the flowers gently on your table. Lifts his gloved hand and traces your jaw, slow, reverent, as if grounding himself in the reality of you.
You reach for the edge of his mask.
He lets you peel it up.
And there he is.
Tired. Bruised. Beautiful.
You lean up and kiss him softly.
Not desperate. Not frantic.
Just home.
The kind of kiss you give someone who held your name through fire and dirt and foreign skies. The kind of kiss you give someone who always finds their way back.
When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.
“You were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers.
You smile, finally, finally whole again.
“I was dancing for you.”
@ scarsoncherryglass 2025. reposts, likes, and comments are very appreciated!
King!Simon had never been very affectionate. He didn't believe in it. There was no point in being frivolous with his love. It was stupid. It was for the weak.
That was until your child was born. She was small, so small it scared him. He was sure she was ill or something was wrong, but here she was dressed in what he considered to be the world’s most needlessly opulent dress for a little baby girl. She babbled happily and smashed her wooden toy horse into the stone floor of your shared chambers.
He huffs, eyes looking over your happy baby. “She looks ridiculous.”
“She looks royal. Like a little princess should,” you retort. You had dressed her in the finest clothes you could find, sent as a gift from your family. It was customary to show wealth and power with lavish clothing for your people. Simon did not feel the same way.
“Your people are strange. I see no need for this drama.” He mutters, sighing. He would never say it out loud, but he found her extravagant clothing to be entirely adorable.
You turn your nose up at him, scooping the little girl into your lap and adjusting her dress so it didn't wrinkle. “It shows she is important, Simon.”
“Important people have many furs or weapons. Things of strength, not… a little gold dress.” He insisted, patting the girls back as she coughs.
You roll your eyes and hand your daughter over to him when she starts to fuss, little hands making a grabbing motion at her father. “Oh hush. She is darling.”
“Mmm. Sweet child." He nods in agreement, poking her cheek with his finger, earning a squeal and laugh from her.
He indulged her at every chance. Toys and dresses filled the chest he had made for her with his own hands. He had even started a second to fit more of her possessions. In her short 8 months she had already accumulated quite a collection.
Simon took her everywhere, even if it wasn’t deemed “appropriate." Your little baby sat in on war meetings, happily chewing on her father’s collar, interrupting the council with happy shrieks or hungry screams. He even took her to the training ground, letting her watch the young soldiers train and practice their swordsmanship.
For Simon, there was no place that she didn’t belong. He has her on his lap while he tears his food apart, relishing in the large plate delivered to him. She also is very enthusiastic, shrieking and trying to take bites from his hands. “No, little one. This is not yours.”
“Bahhh bahh!!” She shrieks in growing frustration, tiny little hands slapping at his chest.
He shakes his head, adjusting her away from the food. “Yelling will not make me give you any. You are spoiled enough."
Your little, furious girl wails, face turning red as she starts to cry, confusion and anger overriding her usually calm demeanor. Her chest heaves as she tries to throw herself backwards in her dramatic display.
"Oh fine, child." Simon huffs and pulls her closer, handing her a piece of cheese that is far too big for someone so small. Her shrieking halts immediately, using her tiny little teeth to bite a chunk off of the wedge. She shakes the cheese up and down in delight, tilting it for you to see as you watch.
"Daddy spoils you again, I see," you joke, smiling at the exchange.
He looks scandalized by the claim, putting a hand to his chest. "What? She is a princess. She must be strong."
"And cheese will make her strong?" Sometimes you swore he said things just to justify gifting her things and spoiling her beyond reason.
He nods with full conviction. "Yes. Besides, she wants it. Best to keep 'er happy."
He lifts the girl so he can look at her chubby little face. He smiles as she takes another bite of her cheese. "She knows good food when she sees it." He plants a kiss on her cheek and adjusts the little bonnet you had put her in. "There we go, princess."
Hi welcome to my Ex!PhillipGraves Cinematic Universe that I have been cooking up. Listed below is the main series, little timeline extras, and general headcannons/character asks. My asks and DMs are OPEN! Please send in any requests and I will respond when I can!!
Main Series
Chapter 1/Prologue - Let Me In
A quiet evening turns into something much more complicated when Phillip shows up at your door like the last two years never happened.
Chapter 2 - Major League
Little league baseball games, custody schedules, and the uncomfortable realization that co-parenting with Phillip is a lot harder than it should be.
Chapter 3 - Extra Innings
Snowcones, stolen memories, and the dangerous feeling that some games might not actually be over yet.
Chapter 4 - Quiet Like This
Bedtime routines, tired conversations, and the quiet truth that some things were never really left behind.
Chapter 5 - Right on Time
Phillip shows up early. She has a date. For the first time, neither of them walks away unscathed.
Chapter 6- Just This Once
A late-night call. A request that doesn’t make sense. For the first time, something in him almost breaks...and she hears it.
Chapter 7- Can't Turn Back
He shows up like he always does. Bruised. Quiet. Acting like it’s nothing. It isn’t- and she finally says it.
Chapter 8- Iced Out
The storm traps him there. Too close. Too familiar. Like nothing’s changed. It has, and you both feel it.
Chapter 9- Still Warm
Power’s back. Pancakes are on. Their son is down the hall. And Phillip Graves still tastes a little too much like coming home.
If there’s anything you want to see, any scenes you’re hoping for, or ideas you have for the story, feel free to leave them in the comments or send me an ask.
Also, if you can’t tell already, I’m extremely down bad for Phillip Graves, so honestly any excuse to write more of him works for me.
Thank you to everyone who sends me such awesome prompts and questions! I'm having so much fun with this!!
a very big thought came to me—so we know how in mwii phillip got his scar fairly recently (as its not in older folders), so say phillip got the scar while dating/married… what happens then?
LOVE ME SOME PRE-DIVORCE FLASHBACKS AND LORE
This was so fun to think about and I feel like I had a million and one ideas for how this would play out.
I also found out I love writing Shadow Company combat? Resisting the urge to write more from Phillips POV when hes deployed rn.
You are sitting at the kitchen table with a pen flicking against your papers, three different versions of the seating chart spread out in front of you, and the sinking realization that there is no polite way to keep his aunt away from his mother’s side of the family without starting a war before you cut the cake.
Phillip, naturally, has been no help.
Not because he does not care. He cares in the way Phillip cares about things he has already decided will work out because he trusts you, trusts his own judgment, and cannot imagine a boutonniere color being the thing that finally takes him down.
You had texted him a photo of the guest list three days ago and asked for his opinion.
His response had been:
Put whoever annoys you closest to the exit.
Helpful.
Very groom-like.
Then you hear the truck.
That low, familiar sound rolling into the driveway makes your whole body react before you can stop it. Relief first. Irritation second, because he was supposed to call when he was close. Then relief again, stronger this time, because he is home and you have missed him too much to pretend otherwise.
You push back from the table, already calling toward the door.
“Phillip Graves, if you think you can disappear for three days and then come home without giving me one useful opinion about this wedding-”
You open the door.
The words die in your mouth.
He is standing on the porch with his bag in one hand and that stupid, crooked, trying-too-hard smile on his face.
Except the smile is wrong.
Too careful. Too tight.
Because one whole side of his face is swollen.
There is a bandage stretched along his cheekbone, white gauze and medical tape cutting across skin that should not look so bruised. Purple-black shadowing blooms under his eye, spreading down toward his cheek. Even the white of his eye is stained red, blood vessels burst and angry beneath the swelling. The skin around it is raised, pulled tight beneath the tape. The wound disappears back toward his ear, and there is a small nick there too, dried dark at the edge like something had torn too close and kept going.
For a second, you do not breathe. Your hand comes up over your mouth in shock.
Phillip’s smile twitches, “Don’t look at me like that.”
Your hand tightens around the door, “Phillip.”
“It’s nothin’.”
“Your face-”
“I know.” His mouth pulls up a little more, crooked because it hurts. “Messed up my pretty face.”
You blink at him.
Once.
Twice.
Your eyes fill so fast that the smile falls off his face entirely, his own eyes going wide as he puts his hands up and steps close to you, herding the two of you into the house and kicking the door closed behind him gently.
“Hey,” he says immediately, his tone soothing. “Hey, darlin’, don’t do that.”
“What happened?”
“It’s alright.”
“What happened?”
He steps closer like getting closer might fix it, his bag dropping forgotten near the door. “Just a graze.”
“A graze?”
“Yes.”
“On your face? And your ear?”
“Still attached, ain’t it?”
You stare at him.
He exhales like you are being unreasonable, but there is no bite in it. His eyes keep moving over your face, checking the damage, trying to figure out how close you are to crying and how fast he can talk you out of it.
“Doc said I’m fine.”
“You have stitches in your cheek.”
“Had worse.”
“That is not comforting.”
“Wasn’t supposed to be.” He tries for the smile again. “Supposed to make me sound tough and sexy.”
“It makes you sound stupid.”
His brows lift faintly.
“Well,” he says, huffing sarcastically, “that’s just hurtful.”
You do not laugh. He stops trying to make you.
For half a second, the room goes too quiet.
Then, without meaning to, Phillip remembers.
The whistle of the shot.
Not a cracking noise like the way people think. A whistle. Just sharp and splitting, swallowed by shouting and return fire and the hard slam of his body hitting the wall when instinct moved him before thought did.
Heat came before pain.
That was what he remembered most clearly.
Not the blood. Not the medic cursing. Not the way his ear rang so hard the world went thin and white around the edges.
The fucking heat.
A brutal line across his cheekbone, sudden and searing, like someone had reached out and dragged fire across his face.
His head snapped with it.
For half a second, everything narrowed to the ringing in his ear and the wet, hot slide of blood down his jaw.
Then his glove came away red.
Blood slipped toward his mouth, thick and copper-warm, and his tongue caught the taste before he could spit it out.
“Graves!”
He barely had time to register the voice before the second and third round hit him square in the chest.
Thank the Lord above he’d never trusted cheap gear.
Ceramic plates. Coated. Overpriced, according to men who enjoyed being wrong, and worth every damn penny when the shots slammed into center mast hard enough to knock him flat. The plate cracked under the carrier, but goddamnit, it held.
No spall. No hot spray of fragments turning his own armor against him.
Just impact.
Bruising.
Air gone.
His helmet rattled hard against the ground, pain blooming beneath the shattered plate, right under the photo of you tucked inside his vest for good luck.
Lucky he was.
For one ugly second, there was no breath. No order. No room for command.
Just white pain.
Weight.
Noise.
A hand fisted in the front of his gear and dragged him behind cover.
“Shadow Zero One is hit!”
The medic was on him before Phillip could sit up, pressing gauze hard against his face while someone else shouted for him to stay down.
Phillip laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because if he did not laugh, he was going to think about the fact that the first round had passed close enough for him to feel the air move with it. Close enough that if he had turned his head one inch differently, it would not have carved a line across his cheek.
It would have gone through him in a hole even the best medic could not fix.
And for one clean, furious second, he did not think about the mission.
Not the objective. Not the extraction. Not the ache already spreading through his ribs. Not the men waiting on Commander Graves to get his shit together and give orders.
He thought about you.
Barefoot in the kitchen two mornings ago, wearing his shirt like it already belonged to you. Ring flashing on your left hand while you pointed a spoon at him like a weapon and accused him of finishing the coffee without making more.
You rolling your eyes when he kissed you instead of apologizing.
The whole ordinary, irritating, perfect shape of the life he was supposed to make it home to.
Then the second ended.
Phillip shoved you down deep, somewhere the fear could not reach fast enough to slow his hands.
He spat blood, grabbed the medic’s wrist, and forced the words out through his teeth.
“I’m fine. Patch it.”
Now you are standing in front of him, staring at the place where a bullet almost made you a widow before you ever got to be his wife.
He clears his throat, “Looks worse than it is.”
Your eyes snap to his, “Do not.”
“What?”
“You’re minimizing.”
“Big word.”
“Phillip.”
He sighs, and it sounds almost like surrender. Almost.
The bruising under his eye makes your stomach twist. His eye itself is clear, sharp, painfully blue, but the swelling around it makes the whole side of his face look fragile in a way Phillip never does. He is not supposed to look fragile. He is not supposed to come home with proof on his face that the world can touch him before you ever get a say.
His eyes come back to yours, and now there is the edge. That frustrated, defensive thing he reaches for when tenderness starts feeling too much like exposure.
“It grazed me. That’s what happened.”
“It almost hit your eye.”
“It didn’t.”
“Your head, Phillip.”
“It didn’t.”
“If you had turned even a little-”
“I didn’t.”
“You almost died.”
He exhales hard through his nose and lets out a dry laugh of exasperation.
“I almost die a lot.”
The room changes. He knows it the second the words leave his mouth. His expression shifts immediately.
“Okay,” he says, softer. “Alright. Easy. That was stupid.”
He goes to say more, searching for the words, but the look in your eyes stops him cold. His mouth closes. He reaches for you, then stops himself. His hand hangs between you for one second too long before he lets it fall.
“I came home.”
The words are low. Rough. Like that should settle it.
Like it has settled it before.
You are still here. I made it back. It is over because I am standing in front of you.
But his face is swollen and bruised and split beneath a bandage, and you cannot stop seeing the path of it. Cheekbone to ear.
“You keep saying that like it fixes how close you came to not being here at all.”
Phillip’s jaw works once. No joke comes.
Good.
You step closer again, slower this time. He watches you like he does not know whether to brace or soften.
You lift your hand toward his face.
He catches your wrist before you reach him.
Fast. Reflexive. Not hard, but immediate.
“Careful,” he says.
The word is low. Rough around the edges.
For a second, you think he means the wound. Then you wonder if he means himself.
Your pulse beats under his thumb. He can feel it. You know he can.
His gaze drops to where he is holding you. Something like regret crosses his face.
Slowly, he lets go.
You do not touch the wound first.
You touch the uninjured side of his jaw, because you need to remember that part of him too. Warm skin. Familiar stubble. The tight muscle beneath it. Your thumb moves along his jaw, then stops beneath the bruising. The skin there is hot and tender-looking, colored wrong, swollen enough to change the familiar shape of him.
“You gonna keep starin’ at it?” he asks.
The words are meant to be teasing. They come out too quiet.
“Maybe.”
His mouth twitches. “You like it that much, huh?”
“I hate it.”
The tiny smile fades.
“I hate it,” you say again, softer. “I hate that I can see how close you were.”
Phillip looks at you then. No smirk. No easy drawl. No pretty lie.
Just him.
Alive, injured, exhausted, and standing in your entryway like he has finally realized the wound did not stop happening when the bleeding did.
His throat works, “Darlin’-”
“No. Do not ‘darlin’’ me out of this.”
That almost gets him.
Almost.
But then your fingers tremble against his jaw, and he notices.
His hand comes up again, wrapping around your wrist. This time, not to stop you. To keep you there.
“I’m alright,” he says.
“You are not.”
His eyes soften by a fraction.
“No,” he says after a moment. “Probably not.”
The honesty hurts worse than the jokes. You breathe out shakily and let your thumb hover just under the bandage.
“Phillip, we get married in two months.”
His eyes flick back to yours, “That still on?”
You glare at him through wet eyes, “Not funny.”
“Little funny.”
“It is not.” Your voice cracks, and you hate it. “How am I supposed to explain this to my family?”
You gesture at the mark, knowing that it will scar over sloppily just in time for photos and celebration. His mouth curves faintly.
“Tell ’em you like dangerous men.”
“Phil, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He shifts just enough to lean into your hand, barely, like he can pretend it was accidental. “Makes you sound interestin’.”
You let out a sound that is almost a laugh and almost a sob.
He catches it. His face softens more. Too much.
You hate when he does that. When he acts like the world can tear him open and he still has enough left to worry about your breathing.
“I can’t marry you if you’re dead,” you say.
That wipes the last trace of humor from his face.
“Darlin’.”
“I can’t.”
His fingers tighten gently around your wrist.
“You won’t have to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I’m here.”
“That is not the same thing.”
The words hang between you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then Phillip takes a slow breath and lowers his forehead until it almost touches yours, careful not to brush the injured side of his face against you.
“I know,” he says.
It is barely more than breath.
Not an argument this time.
Not a correction.
Just an admission.
You close your eyes.
Your hand is still on his jaw. His hand is still around your wrist. His breath is warm against your mouth, familiar enough to hurt.
“You should have called me sooner,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“You should have told me how bad it was.”
“I know.”
“You scared me.”
His eyes close, “I know.”
You rise onto your toes before you can think better of it.
“Careful,” he murmurs again.
“I am.”
You kiss the uninjured side of his face first.
His jaw flexes.
Then the corner of his mouth.
His fingers tighten around your wrist.
Then, finally, you kiss just beneath the bandage.
Soft.
Barely there.
Nowhere near enough to hurt.
Phillip stops breathing.
For one long second, he is completely still under your mouth. Then he exhales, quiet and uneven, the kind of sound a man makes when he is trying very hard not to make any sound at all.
When you pull back, he looks almost angry.
That is how you know it mattered.
“You done inspectin’ the damage?” he asks, voice low.
You shake your head.
“No.”
His mouth twitches.
Painfully. Carefully.
“Didn’t think so.”
You touch his jaw again, thumb resting near the edge of the bruise.
“I’m still mad at you.”
“I figured.”
“I am probably going to be mad for a while.”
“Seems fair.”
“And if you make one more joke about your pretty face, I am going to lose my mind.”
That gets the smile out of him.
Small. Crooked. Ruined at the edges by swelling and stitches and pain.
“So you do think I’m pretty?”
You stare at him.
He smiles a little wider, immediately regrets it, and winces.
“Dumbass,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, voice softer now. “But I’m your dumbass.”
Your eyes burn again.
He sees it.
His hand slides from your wrist to your waist, drawing you in with none of his usual arrogance. No swagger. No performance. Just need, quiet and careful, like he has finally run out of ways to make this funny.
You let him.
Your arms go around him carefully, avoiding the injured side of his face, and Phillip lowers his head until his forehead rests against your shoulder.
For the first time since he walked in, he stops performing.
No joke. No smirk.
No just a graze.
Just the weight of him leaning into you like he finally understands that coming home alive does not erase the fear he brought with him.
Your hand moves to the back of his neck.
His breath warms your collarbone.
“I’m here,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes, “I know.”
But your fingers tremble against his skin anyway.
Because the scar is fresh.
Because the bruise is dark.
Because the bullet missed.
Because he came home.
And one day, it will heal into a pale line across his cheek, and everyone else will think it makes him look sharper. Meaner. More dangerous.
But you will always know what it really is.
A measurement.
How close the world came to taking Phillip Graves from you.
And how much of yourself would have gone with him.
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Does Phil have a good relationship with his parents? Would he introduce reader to them? Would his mother embarrass him with baby pictures? Instantly dote on her grandson? The wedding? What would happen after the divorce omg the brain worms are worming
Or would he have left the second he could? Decided to do his own thing after one too many arguments and drunken punches thrown by his father? Doesn't care what they say, don't care that they hold more "traditional values", he loves reader as they are
I had wayyyy too much fun writing this and dreaming this up. If anyone wants more fics based on this stuff PLEASE send me an ask because I am eating this up. I could rant about family dynamics for hours. With what we see from Graves, it’s tricky thinking about where he came from, but boy do I have feelings.
I don’t think Phillip comes from some perfectly soft, Hallmark Southern family where everyone hugs in the kitchen and his mama is pulling out baby pictures while his dad claps him on the shoulder and calls him son.
But I also don’t think, for my version of Phillip, that he came from some violently awful home he had to run from the second he turned eighteen.
I think it is more complicated than that.
In my head, Phillip is Texas born and raised. His family is from Texas. His roots are there, even if he eventually outgrew the life people expected him to have.
And I do think his mother is sweet.
Not fake sweet. Not pageant sweet. Not “bless your heart” with a knife behind it.
I think she is genuinely warm. Practical. Proud. The kind of woman who knows how to make a house feel lived-in. The kind who has sweet tea in the fridge, a casserole recipe she does not need to look at anymore, and a way of touching Phillip’s cheek that makes him go very still because he is not twelve years old anymore but apparently his mama can still get away with it.
She loves him. She is proud of him. She probably worries about him more than he knows what to do with.
And yes, she would absolutely dote on her grandson.
That baby would have a whole drawer at her house. Extra pajamas. Little socks. Snacks he likes. Books he only reads with Grandma. Some ugly toy Phillip complains about every single time and she keeps specifically because it annoys him.
“Ma, he does not need that thing.”
“Oh, hush now, Philly.”
And Phillip would just stand there, mouth shut, jaw tight, while you try not to laugh.
I’ve kind of implied this before in other fics, but I do see Phillip’s mom being involved. Like, if your son is at Grandma’s house, that is normal. It is not weird. It is not a big dramatic thing. She loves that baby. She loves having him over. She loves sending him home with more snacks than you packed and pretending she has no idea how that happened.
And I think she loves you too.
Not in a fake “you’re my daughter now” way where it becomes too much too fast, but in a real way. A steady way.
Because you were the first woman Phillip brought home seriously. The one he married. The mother of her grandson.
The woman who got past all that polish and charm and command voice and actually built a life with him.
That would mean something to her.
So yes, after the divorce, I do not think she just vanishes from your life.
I also do not think she stays close in a messy, boundaryless, “I’m choosing you over my son” way. It is not that. She loves Phillip. That is her son. But she also knows you. She knows the baby. She knows that whatever happened between you and Phillip, you are still family in the way that matters to a child.
So she calls you directly. Not always through Phillip.
“Hey, honey, I was thinking I could take him Saturday if you need a break.”
“I made too much soup. I’m dropping some off.”
“Does he still like those little crackers, or is he mad at those now?”
Very grandma. Very practical. Very sweet.
And Phillip would pretend that does not get to him. But it absolutely does.
Because after the divorce, it is one more reminder that you are still woven into his life even where the marriage tore. His mother still has your number saved. His mother still asks how you are. Still calls on your birthday. His mother still loves the baby through you, not around you.
That would hurt him more than he would ever admit.
As for his father, I’m still a little mixed, but I lean toward him being gone by the time Phillip has his son.
Not because I want Phillip’s dad to be some cartoon villain. I do not think Phillip needs a full “drunken punches thrown every night” backstory to explain why he is the way he is. Honestly, I think it is more interesting if Phillip was raised in a house where love existed, but it was not always soft.
His father, to me, feels like the kind of man who believed boys became men through pressure.
Traditional. Proud. Damn hard to impress.
The kind of father where “you’ll live” counted as comfort and “not bad” counted as praise.
Not evil, just emotionally limited.
A man who worked hard, provided, expected the same from his son, and probably loved Phillip in ways Phillip had to learn how to translate.
That explains Phillip really well to me. Because Phillip is charming, but not vulnerable. Decisive, because hesitation probably did not get rewarded. Bossy, because being in control feels safer than waiting for someone else to decide. Confident, because he learned early that if you act like you know what you’re doing, people are more likely to believe you. And polished, because Southern manners can hide a lot of tension if you know how to use them right.
I think his mother gave him the charm. His father gave him the pressure. The Marine Corps gave him the structure. And Shadow Company gave him the freedom to finally build something in his own image.
I also kind of love the idea that Phillip has older sisters. A boy raised by his sisters.
I have not fully decided how many, but there is something so funny and perfect to me about Phillip Graves being the baby boy in a house full of women and still somehow growing up convinced he is in charge.
Like maybe he has two older sisters. Both opinionated. Both capable. Both fully immune to his bullshit.
That would explain a lot.
It would explain why he is so comfortable around women who have a mouth on them. A woman with opinions does not scare him. A woman who pushes back does not confuse him. He grew up at a kitchen table where women talked over each other, corrected him, fussed at him, loved him, and humbled him constantly.
So when you get snippy with him? When you roll your eyes? When you tell him he is being impossible?
He does not hear that and think, oh no, disobedience.
He thinks, home.
But being the youngest and the only boy would also come with pressure. His sisters could be loved and capable, but he was the son. The Graves boy. The one carrying the name. The one his father looked at like he was supposed to become something just because of his last name.
So yes, I think Phillip was loved.
I just do not think he was always loved gently.
And I think that matters.
Now, why did he enlist at eighteen?
I don’t think it was just to run away. I think it was because Phillip was hungry.
Hungry to prove himself. Hungry to get out into the world. Hungry for structure, challenge, and something bigger than being the Graves boy with a hard-to-impress father and a future everyone else thought they could predict.
That feels important to me, because I don’t think his father had to be cruel for Phillip to spend his whole life chasing proof. Sometimes “not bad” being the highest praise you ever get is enough to make a boy decide he is going to become undeniable.
So Phillip joins the Marine Corps, and I think he takes to it fast.
Not because it is easy.
Because it makes sense to him.
Rank makes sense. Standards make sense. Pressure makes sense.
Do the job. Be better. Prove it. Again.
And I can absolutely see him starting in something technical, maybe a comms MOS or something adjacent. He has that field-smart, tech-capable, systems-minded thing about him. Smart enough for the equipment, physical enough for the field, charming enough to work people when he needs to.
Which is probably what made him dangerous.
He was not just strong. He was not just smart. He was not just good with his mouth.
He was all three, and he knew it.
So no, I do not think Phillip enlisted and coasted through a contract just waiting to get out. Absolutely not. He would learn the system fast, learn who mattered, learn how to get noticed, and then once he had the time in and the right to try for something harder, of course he would look at MARSOC and think, yeah, that.
Because regular Marine Corps would not be enough once Raider was on the table.
That ties back to his father too, I think. Not in a simple “I need Dad’s approval” way, but in the deeper way. Phillip was raised to believe competence mattered. Toughness mattered. Being useful mattered. So he kept climbing until he was not just good, but exceptional.
And then, eventually, even that system became too small.
That is very Phillip to me.
He masters the structure, outgrows it, and builds his own.
Now, would he introduce you to his family?
Yes.
But I do not think he would do it casually.
Not because he is ashamed of you. Absolutely the fuck not. Phillip would be obnoxiously proud of you. But I think bringing you home would mean something because his family is not a place he brings every woman.
You are not some casual girlfriend he is letting meet Mama over Sunday lunch.
You are the one. And his mother would know that immediately.
She would see the way he watches you when you are not looking. The way his hand goes to your lower back without thought. The way his voice changes when he says your name. The way he acts cocky and unbothered, but still keeps checking your face to make sure you are comfortable.
His mother would embarrass him, but not cruelly. Just in that soft mother way.
“Oh, he was such a serious little thing. Always thought he was grown.”
“Mama.”
“Had that same little frown too.”
“Mama.”
“And Lord above, he hated being told no.”
You would be trying not to laugh, and Phillip would be sitting there with his jaw tight, pretending he is annoyed, but secretly pleased because you and his mother are getting along.
And baby pictures? Yes, but not a giant dramatic album moment unless you asked.
I think she would have a few tucked away. Maybe one on the wall, one in a frame, one old photo of Phillip as a little boy in his Dad’s cowboy hat with a pacifier in his mouth, wide blue eyes and that bright blond hair only seen in youth.
You would point at it immediately, hand over your heart as you coo. Phillip would sigh.
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting.”
His mother would be thrilled.
As for his dad, I think you meet him. Maybe only a few times.
And I do not think he is awful to you. I think he is polite. Reserved. Observant. The kind of man who does not gush, does not perform warmth, does not waste words.
He shakes your hand. Calls you honey or sweetheart in that old Texas way. Asks practical questions. Watches Phillip watch you.
And you notice Phillip is different around him.
Not scared. Just measured. Still.
Like some part of him remembers being seventeen and trying not to look too eager for approval.
Maybe his father catches him alone at some point. Maybe out on the porch, or near the truck, or in that quiet space after dinner when everyone else is inside.
His father looks toward the house, where you are laughing with his mother. Crickets singing in the long grass around the patio stones as the Texas heat starts to settle down.
Then he says simply, “You serious about this one?”
And Phillip does not joke. Does not smirk. Does not say something cocky.
He just looks through the window at you laughing with his mother and sisters, then back at his father.
“Yes, sir.”
And that “sir” sounds different coming from Phillip.
Not sexy. Not playful.
Loaded.
Because underneath all that confidence, all that swagger, all that command, there is still a son standing in front of his father and saying, yes, this is the woman.
Yes, I chose her. Yes, I mean it.
Then I think his dad dies before the baby is born. Something tragically simple.
A heart attack. Stroke.
And that leaves Phillip with unfinished business he has no idea what to do with.
Because becoming a father makes him feel like a son again.
He thought he had outgrown that. He thought he had built himself into Commander Graves, into the man with the company and the money and the name and the control. Then his son is born, and suddenly he is standing in the dark wondering whether his dad would have thought he was doing it right.
I can see it so clearly.
Two in the morning.
The nursery is quiet except for the soft little sounds of the baby sleeping. You are exhausted in bed, finally resting, and Phillip should be asleep too. He has every reason to be. But he is standing barefoot in a pair of sweatpants beside the crib, one hand curled around the rail, staring down at his son.
The baby is impossibly small. Red-cheeked. Fisted hands. Little mouth opening and closing like he is dreaming about milk.
Phillip should go back to bed.
He does not.
Because every time he looks at him, something in his chest shifts.
Pride, mostly. Terror, if he is being honest.
And something else he does not like naming.
He wonders what his father would have said.
Not out loud. Never out loud.
Just thinks it once, mean and unwanted.
What would you think of him?
Then, worse:
What would you think of me?
His jaw tightens.
Ridiculous.
He is a grown ass man. A father. A husband. A commander. He has stood in rooms with men twice as dangerous as his father ever was and made them blink first.
Still, there he is.
Barefoot in the nursery, waiting on praise from a dead man.
And maybe you find him there. Half-asleep, wrapped in a robe, hair messy, voice soft.
“Phil?”
He does not turn right away.
You step closer, careful not to wake the baby, and slide your arm around his waist.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
A lie.
You know it. He knows you know it.
For a while, neither of you says anything. Then Phillip’s voice comes low in the dark.
“He’s so little.”
You rest your cheek against his shoulder, “Not for long.”
Phillip looks down at his son.
No.
Not if he does this right.
That is the kind of father I think Phillip becomes.
Not perfect. Not magically healed.
But intentional.
A man who looks at his son and thinks, I will not make you earn softness from me.
He might not always know how to say it. He might still be too stern sometimes. Too protective. Too sure he knows best. He might still have to learn that love does not have to sound like instruction.
But he would try.
God, he would try.
After the baby is born, his mother would be gone. Fully gone. Instant grandma mode.
That baby is getting rocked, snuggled, spoiled, fed, and told every story about Daddy when he was little.
Phillip would act like she is doing too much while standing in the doorway watching his mother hold his son with this quiet, complicated look on his face.
Because his father is gone. Because his mother is still here. Because his son will know softness from her that Phillip sometimes only learned how to receive in pieces.
And then the divorce.
Oh, the divorce would break his mother’s heart.
But not in a way where she makes it about herself.
She would not call you sobbing, asking what happened, begging you to reconsider, making you comfort her.
I think she would be quiet about it. Practical.
Devastated in that restrained Southern way where you can hear the grief in the pauses more than the words. Because she knows enough about marriage and men and her son to know there are probably things she does not get to ask.
And she stays kind. She still watches the baby. She still calls you directly.
She does not gossip. She does not pry. She does not make you explain the private wreckage of your marriage to earn her help.
Maybe one day she drops off soup because she “made too much,” even though you both know she did not. She sees you standing in the doorway, exhausted, trying to smile like you have not been crying.
And she just says, “You don’t have to tell me a thing. But I can sit here a while.”
That would mean more than either of you could say.
Phillip’s reaction to that would be messy. He would not hate that his mother still loves you. He would be grateful, probably.
But it would hurt like hell.
Because his mother was supposed to be your mother-in-law forever. His family was supposed to stay intact around you. And now his mom is still bringing soup to the woman he failed to stay married to.
That is a very specific kind of pain.
And I think if anyone in his family ever tried to talk down about you after the divorce, he would shut it down immediately. Even if he was angry. Even if he was heartbroken. Even if he had just come from another awful custody conversation and felt like he was bleeding out from the inside.
No one gets to make you small in front of him.
Not his sisters. Not his mother. Not some aunt with too many opinions.
No one.
Because Phillip may have been raised around traditional values, but he is not his father. He does not want a woman who disappears beside him. He wants a wife with a spine. A mouth. Opinions. Fire. Someone who challenges him and still chooses him.
So if anyone ever suggested you were too difficult, too stubborn, too independent, too much?
Phillip would go cold. Polite first. Always polite first.
“Careful how you talk about my wife.”
And if they pushed?
“I said careful.”
Because even after the divorce, I do not think that instinct disappears cleanly. Maybe he corrects himself later. Maybe he says ex-wife and hates the taste of it.
But in his head? In that first flash of anger?
You are still his wife.
You are still the woman he brought home. Still the woman his mother loved. Still the woman his father asked if he was serious about. Still the mother of his son.
So yes, I think his mother is sweet.
Yes, I think she loves you. Yes, I think she adores her grandson. Yes, I think Phillip probably has older sisters who made him better with women and worse about being told what to do.
Yes, I think his father was complicated and hard to impress and gone before Phillip ever got to ask him what the hell you are supposed to do when you are handed a son of your own.
And yes, I think the divorce would hurt the whole family in quiet ways.
But especially Phillip.
Because Phillip Graves can survive war zones, betrayal, bullets, blood, and men trying to kill him.
But his mama still calling his ex-wife “honey” while asking about his son?
His baby sleeping in a crib under the roof his father never got to see?
Standing in the dark, wondering if a dead man would think he is doing alright?
whats the first day back from the hospital with the baby like.. 🥹
Oh, this one hurts in the softest way. Because I think the first day home is quiet.
Exhausted. Tender. A little surreal in that newborn way where the whole world looks exactly the same, except there is suddenly a three-day-old baby running the entire house.
And Phillip?
Phillip is trying so hard to look like he has it handled.
-
The hospital part is a blur to him.
Discharge takes forever. Or maybe it takes no time at all. He genuinely cannot remember.
He remembers papers. Instructions. A nurse explaining feeding times and diapers and temperature and safe sleep with the patience of a woman who has clearly seen terrified first-time fathers before.
He remembers asking too many questions.
He remembers you sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, moving slowly and carefully, still sore, still exhausted, still somehow more beautiful than he knew what to do with.
He remembers the baby sleeping through nearly all of it, rude and perfect, bundled in his little blanket with his hat slipping down his forehead.
His son.
That thought still catches in him.
His son.
The name is barely dry on the paperwork because, for three days, the baby did not have one. Not officially. Not really.
You had talked about names for months. In bed. In the kitchen. In the truck. With your feet in his lap and his hand resting over your stomach while he pretended not to have strong opinions and then immediately had very strong opinions.
But when you went into labor early, Phillip was on a contract somewhere hot and green and godforsaken, listening to your voice through static and engine noise while his whole body went cold.
Deciding his son’s name over a bad connection on a satellite phone had felt wrong.
Blasphemous, almost.
Like he had already missed too much to let one more sacred thing happen through distance.
So his son waited.
You waited.
And Phillip will never quite forgive himself for that.
By the time he got there, pale and tense and wrecked from the inside out, the hardest part was already over.
You had already done it.
You had already brought his son into the world without his hand in yours.
He had missed the beginning.
You told him he was here now. He nodded like he believed you.
He did not.
Not fully.
The drive home is slow. Careful. Too careful, probably. Phillip treats every turn like an insult and every bump in the road like a personal attack. You tease him for it once, softly, eyes half-closed in the passenger seat.
He tries to smile. Mostly, he keeps looking in the rearview mirror. By the time you reach the house, the baby is asleep again.
Still rude. Still perfect.
Phillip gets out first and comes around to your side before you can even touch the handle.
“I can open a door,” you tell him, though your voice is tired enough to take the sting out of it.
“I know.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he says in a huff, but his hand is gentle when he offers it to you.
You take it.
Slowly, carefully, he helps you out of the truck. One hand at your elbow. The other hovering near your lower back like he wants to touch everywhere and is afraid of hurting you by touching anything.
“I’m not made of glass,” you murmur.
His jaw tightens.
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”
Something in his voice makes you look at him.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Because there is the thing again.
The thing sitting under every careful touch and every too-soft order and every time his eyes flick from your face to your stomach to the baby.
You did something enormous. You did it without him. And he does not know where to put that.
You squeeze his hand once, “Phillip.”
“I know,” he says before you can finish.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
Your mouth softens. He looks away first. Then he lifts the car seat from the base like it weighs a thousand pounds.
The baby sleeps through it.
Phillip stares down at him.
“Precious cargo,” he mutters.
You smile, tired and aching and so full of love it almost hurts. His eyes come back to you instantly.
The house looks exactly the same.
Same porch. Same front door. Same uneven little step you keep saying you are going to fix and Phillip keeps saying he will handle.
But somehow it looks different now.
Like the house knows. Like it has been waiting.
Phillip unlocks the door. For a second, neither of you moves.
You.
Him.
The baby.
The three of you on the threshold.
Then Phillip pushes the door open.
And brings his family home.
The house changes.
Not loudly.
There is no music. No grand announcement. No cinematic swell.
Just the soft click of the door. The quiet shift of your feet. The tiny creak of the car seat handle in Phillip’s grip.
But it changes.
The air changes.
The house that had been waiting finally exhales.
You make it two steps inside before Phillip’s free hand finds your waist.
“Alright,” he says. “You’re sittin’ down.”
You glance at him. “I just sat in the car the entire way home.”
“And now you’re gonna sit in the house.”
“I am allowed to walk inside my own home.”
“You are allowed to do whatever you want once you sit down first.”
You stare at him. He stares back.
Both of you are too tired for this to become a real argument, but not too tired to enjoy the familiar shape of it.
“Phillip Graves,” you say, “are you bossing around the woman who just had your baby?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Very gently.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
It hurts.
You wince.
Phillip’s face changes immediately.
“See?”
“Do not ‘see’ me.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“You are hovering.”
“I am husbanding.”
“That is not a word.”
“It is now. Sit down.”
You roll your eyes, but you let him guide you toward the nursery instead of the couch. The glider is already waiting there, soft and wide and overflowing with your memory foam pillows his mother had gifted to you during your baby shower, tucked beside the crib you spent months fussing over while Phillip assembled furniture and pretended not to read directions until he absolutely had to.
He sets the baby carrier down carefully, then helps you sit like he is lowering something sacred into place.
You watch him bend over the baby, unbuckling straps with slow, deliberate hands. Shaky hands.
“You’re allowed to breathe,” you say.
“I’m breathing.”
“You are concentrating very loudly.”
“He’s small.”
“He is a baby.”
“He’s very small for one.”
“He’s three days old.”
“Exactly.”
You laugh again, softer this time.
Phillip looks up. And there it is.
That look.
The one he has had since he walked into the hospital room and saw you holding his son.
Awe.
Guilt.
Love so big it has nowhere to go, so it keeps turning into worry.
You reach for him.
He comes immediately, crouching beside the glider. Your fingers brush his cheek.
“I’m okay.”
His eyes flick over your face like he is checking for the lie.
“You’re exhausted.”
“Yes.”
“Sore.”
“Yes.”
“Pale.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” you huff with a laugh.
His mouth twitches. He looks down at the soft yellow throw rug under his feet, “I’m tryin’ not to be mad about it.”
“About what?”
He looks down at the baby, pink cheeks glowing in the afternoon sunshine. Your son shifts in the car seat, face scrunching briefly before smoothing again.
Phillip’s voice is quieter when he answers.
“That I wasn’t there.”
Your hand stills against his cheek.
“Phillip.”
“I missed it.”
The words come out flat, but you know him too well to mistake that for feeling nothing.
“I missed the first sound he ever made. I missed you needing me. I missed-”
He stops, eyes dropping. “I missed the most important thing that has ever happened to us.”
Your throat tightens. You slide your thumb along his cheekbone.
“You tried your best.”
“I shouldn’t have had to try. I should’ve been here already.”
“You didn’t know he was coming early.”
“I should’ve planned better.”
“You cannot plan for everything.”
Phillip looks at you then, and the pain in his eyes is so open it almost startles you.
“I can.”
You soften because that is him, isn’t it?
That is Phillip Graves trying to turn guilt into strategy. Trying to turn pain into a list. Trying to turn missing his son’s birth into something he can solve if he just punishes himself efficiently enough.
You lean forward as much as your body lets you and press your forehead to his.
“You’re here,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes. Not like he believes it fixes everything.
Like he wants to.
“You’re here,” you say again. “And he knows your voice already.”
Phillip breathes out, rough and quiet.
The baby stirs before he can answer.
One little grunt. Then a whimper.
Then his face scrunches up, red and furious, like the entire concept of existence has offended him personally.
You shift immediately.
Phillip moves faster.
“I’ve got him.”
Your eyelids and arms feel equally heavy, so you do not protest.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Phillip lifts the baby slowly from the car seat.
Awkwardly. Reverently.
One hand under his head, one under his little back, the way the nurse showed him. His son fusses once against his chest, tiny mouth opening in protest.
Phillip freezes. Then remembers to breathe.
“Hey,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Hey, buddy. I know.”
You watch him for a second.
Then your body gives up on you.
The glider rocks beneath you.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
Back.
Your eyes close once.
Then again.
“Sleep,” Phillip whispers.
You hum something that might be an insult. He smiles despite himself.
Then you murmur, barely awake, “Don’t drop him.”
Phillip goes still.
Your mouth curves faintly even with your eyes closed.
Even exhausted, you have jokes.
He huffs under his breath.
“Mean woman.”
“Love you.”
That nearly ruins him. He swallows around it.
“Love you too.”
A few minutes later, you are fully asleep in the glider, head tipped to one side, one hand resting open in your lap.
Phillip stands there with his son tucked against his chest and looks at you.
Really looks.
Your body worn out from labor. Your face soft with sleep. Your hair messy. Your hospital bracelet still on your wrist. His ring on your finger.
His wife.
The mother of his child.
The woman who did the bravest thing he has ever known and still made room to comfort him for missing it.
The ache in his chest is so sharp he almost has to look away.
He missed the beginning. He knows that. That thought hurts. It will probably always hurt deep down.
But this part?
This quiet room. This soft breathing. This impossible little family under his roof?
He is here for this.
His son makes another tiny broken sound.
Phillip lowers his eyes to him.
“Alright,” he whispers. “Let’s take a look around.”
He starts walking.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Hallway.
Entryway.
Back again.
It starts as soothing.
A slow pace. A gentle bounce. One hand spread wide over the baby’s back, careful and warm, feeling every tiny breath through the cotton of his shirt.
But then it becomes something else.
A tour.
A promise.
A quiet little sweep of the home his son has just entered.
“That’s the kitchen,” he whispers. “Your mama’s gonna tell you I can’t cook.”
The baby hiccups.
“She’s exaggeratin’.”
A pause.
“Sometimes.”
He keeps pacing.
“That’s the living room. Couch is expensive, so if you could hold off on spittin’ up until we get past it, I’d appreciate it.”
The baby fusses again. Phillip nods solemnly.
“Yeah. Didn’t think so. Was worth a shot though.”
He walks past the framed wedding photo in the hallway and stops for half a second.
There you are in white, smiling at him like you had no idea what he was about to put you through.
There he is beside you, hand at your waist, looking smug and proud and like he thought he understood what forever meant.
Phillip looks down at the baby.
Turns out, he had not understood a damn thing.
Not really.
Not until now.
He keeps walking.
“That’s the bedroom,” he murmurs. “Your mama needs to sleep in there. A lot. We’re gonna let her.”
The baby’s cheek presses warm against his shirt.
He pauses outside his office next.
The door is half-open, the room dark except for the little green light blinking on the printer. His desk is clean now, but he can still see it the way it had been before he left for that contract. Laptop open. Notes half-finished. Bag packed near the door. Him kissing you goodbye with one hand on your stomach, promising he would be back before it mattered.
He had meant it.
That almost makes it worse.
“And that,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “is where Daddy works sometimes.”
The baby shifts against his chest, unimpressed.
Phillip’s mouth twitches.
“Yeah. I know. Boring.”
But he does not move right away.
Because that work paid for the house.
The crib.
The little blanket tucked under his son’s chin.
That work also took him away when you needed him.
His hand spreads carefully over the baby’s back.
“Your mama’s gonna tell you I spend too much time in there,” he whispers.
A pause.
“She’s probably right.”
His son makes a tiny sound against his shirt.
Phillip lowers his eyes to him.
“We’re gonna figure that part out.”
He does not know if he is promising the baby, you, or himself.
Maybe all three.
Then he keeps walking. Eventually, he makes it back to the entryway.
The house is dim now, evening pressing blue against the windows. Somewhere behind him, you are asleep in the glider. The fridge hums in the kitchen. The monitor glows softly in the nursery.
His son has gone quiet. Not fully asleep. Just listening, staring up at him with those unfocused little eyes.
Phillip stands there with him tucked against his chest, feeling every tiny breath against his own.
For once in his life, he has no urge to move.
No call to answer. No order to give. No room to command.
Just this.
This small, warm weight.
This house.
This promise.
His son shifts against him, mouth brushing the fabric of his shirt.
Phillip lowers his mouth to the top of his head and breathes in that soft, impossible new-baby smell he read about in all those pregnancy books.
“You’re home,” he whispers.
The baby does not know what that means. Phillip barely does either. But he says it again anyway.
“You’re home.”
He says it like a promise.
To the baby.
To you asleep in the nursery.
Maybe to himself too.
And for the first time all day, the guilt does not disappear.
But it quiets.
Because he missed the beginning. He will always hate that.
But this part?
This hallway.
This tiny heartbeat against his chest.
This first night under the roof where his son will grow up?
He is here.
And God help him, he has never wanted to be good at anything more.
a question- do u think graves has a strong type/preference in women? like a certain look obsession? or is he more chill than that, what do u think?
i heard southern dudes kinda collectively have a thing for pamela anderson and her lookalikes, not sure how true that is, how do you picture graves in that regard? im not asking a strong 'blonde or a brunette' thing, but u know, some fixation he has in his head?
i hope its not a weird question ^^
Not weird at all!! I actually think this is a really fun question, especially because the way I picture Graves, Shadow Company isn’t just some secret military operation. It’s a company. A serious company. He’s the CEO, he’s rich-rich, he’s powerful, he knows how to work a room, and I do think there’s a public-facing side of him that people forget about sometimes.
So with that in mind, I absolutely think Graves has dated beautiful women. Like, model beautiful. Women who end up photographed near him outside of restaurants or clubs, women with perfect hair and designer dresses and a glass of champagne in their hand. I can see him having a little bit of a reputation for that, honestly. Not necessarily in a messy tabloid way, but in that “who is the woman leaving with Phillip Graves?” kind of way.
And I do think some of those women were probably known-known. Models, socialites, actresses, influencers, the kind of women where you Google him out of curiosity and suddenly you’re staring at some old photo of him outside a private club with his hand on the lower back of a Victoria’s Secret angel and you have to sit there like… okay. Cool. Normal. Fine. Totally not spiraling.
Which, honestly, I could see being a whole conversation between him and you.
Like you find one of those pictures online and try to be normal about it, and he’s so casual because to him it was years ago and barely registers as a real relationship. He’s just like, “Oh, yeah. That was back when I was seeing Becky.”
And you're like, “Seeing Becky. Right. Becky the supermodel?”
And he’s just looking at you like you have lost her mind because, to him, it was a fling. Fun, pretty, temporary, not that deep.
I think that’s the important part for me. I do not picture him as a man who was out there having grand, soul-shattering romances with every beautiful woman he was photographed with. I think a lot of it was casual. He likes women. He likes sex. He likes flirting. He likes chemistry. He likes having a beautiful woman on his arm and a good night that doesn’t need to become a whole emotional ordeal.
And honestly, casual probably worked for him for a long time. Graves does not exactly have an easy life to date around. He disappears. He keeps secrets. He cannot always say where he is, what he is doing, when he will be back, or if he is coming back in one piece. That does not make him easy boyfriend material. So I think for a long time, he kept things light because light was manageable.
A fling does not need to know everything. A fling does not need to be folded into all the ugly, complicated parts of his life. A fling can be fun, beautiful, intense, and over before it starts asking too much of him.
But I don’t think that means he has one strict physical type.
To me, Graves is too grown and too experienced for that. I don’t picture him as a man who is only into blondes, or only into brunettes, or only into one specific body type. I think he has absolutely been around enough beautiful women to know that beauty by itself is not rare in his world. He can find pretty anywhere. He can pay for access to pretty. He can walk into a room and have beautiful women notice him.
If anything, I think that kind of lifestyle would make physical beauty less defining for him, not more. When you have been around enough gorgeous women, gorgeous becomes less shocking. It is still nice, obviously. He still notices. He still appreciates a bombshell. I can absolutely see him understanding the appeal of that sun-kissed, glamorous, Pamela Anderson type of beauty, especially with the Southern man of it all.
But I don’t think that is his fixation. I don’t think he sees a woman who does not fit that mold and suddenly loses interest.
I think what actually gets under his skin is presence.
He likes a woman who can hold his attention after the first impression. Someone who does not just look good on his arm, but can sit across from him and make him want to keep talking. Someone with warmth, confidence, humor, and a little bit of bite. Someone who is feminine without being helpless, soft without being weak, and not so easily impressed by him that he gets bored.
Because the thing is, I think a lot of people are impressed by Graves. The money, the confidence, the reputation, the voice, the authority, the way he carries himself. He is used to people responding to that. He is used to people wanting the fantasy of him.
So the woman who really gets to him is not necessarily the one who fits some perfect visual mold. It is the one who sees all of that and still treats him like a man. Not a bank account, not a title, not a fantasy, not a war story. Just Phillip.
That, to me, would be the difference between someone he has fun with and someone he cannot shake.
So yes, I think he has preferences. I think he likes beauty, polish, femininity, confidence, and a woman who knows how to carry herself. I think he has probably had his share of glamorous flings and pretty women photographed beside him. But I don’t think Graves is sitting there with a checklist of hair color, body type, or exact features.
I think his real “type” is a woman who makes him feel like he has met his match in a softer, more intimate way. Someone he wants to protect, but not because she is incapable. Someone he wants to spoil, but not because she needs to be bought. Someone who can be sweet with him and still call him on his shit.
He can have fun with beauty.
But he falls for presence.
And he remembers the woman who lingers in his head after she leaves.
Can we please get a look into her realizing how much money he throws at aspects of his life? The gear and clothing they wear in the games is so expensive (like $400 for a pair of pants expensive) and it would be funny to see reader's reaction to this information
PLEASE because I am always blown away at how expensive military gear is. Genuinely. What do you mean a mag pouch starts at twenty dollars???
I feel like after years of being military, Graves is so casual about it. Very much a firm believer of "Buy once, cry once" when it comes to good gear.
Phillip has been gone for three days, and when he gets back, he drops his gear in the laundry room like a man who has never once considered the emotional burden of whoever has to wash tactical clothing. Which is to say, he leaves a pile of black fabric, mud, dust, sweat, and whatever else you are choosing not to identify sitting beside the washer with a casual, “Don’t worry about that, baby, I’ll get it later.”
Later, with Phillip, can mean anything from after dinner to next fiscal quarter.
So you do it.
Because you love him. Because you are nice. Because you are apparently the kind of woman who has married into the military-industrial laundry complex.
The shirt is easy enough. The gloves go to the side because they look expensive and vaguely hostile. The socks are disgusting, but manageable. The pants, however, are a whole separate operation.
Mostly because Phillip Graves has never emptied a pocket in his life.
You swear the man treats his tactical pants like a mobile filing cabinet. Every pocket has something in it. Pens. A half-used notebook with a bent cover. Loose change. A lighter. Two receipts so faded they look archaeological. A handful of zip ties. A wrapper. A tiny screwdriver. Some little red plastic thing you are not even going to ask about. One single cough drop covered in lint.
You stand there at the washer, pulling object after object out of his pockets, getting more offended by the second.
“Every time,” you mutter. “Every damn time.”
You check one thigh pocket and find another pen.
Of course.
You check the back pocket and find a folded sticky note with coordinates on it.
Sure. Normal husband things.
By the time you finally get the pants empty, you are irritated enough that you are no longer handling them with the tender respect they apparently require.
That is probably where things go wrong.
There is bleach on the counter because you had been dealing with towels earlier, and when you shift the pants to toss them into the wash, the bottle tips just enough.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
A pale splash hits the dark fabric near the thigh.
You freeze.
For one second, you do not breathe.
Then the black starts changing.
Blood red.
Rusty orange.
Then a sickly yellow.
A horrible, spreading, unmistakable bleach mark.
“No,” you whisper.
The pants do not listen.
You snatch them up, panic-rinsing the spot in the sink like that has ever helped anyone in the history of bleach. It only makes the stain look bigger. More obvious. More permanent.
“Oh, shit.”
It is bad.
Not ripped-seam bad. Not “maybe I can stitch this up” bad.
Ruined bad.
The pants are still wearable, technically, but they look fucked up now. Like someone attacked them with cleaning supplies, which is, unfortunately, exactly what happened.
You feel terrible.
They are his work pants. His nice work pants, probably. His scary little mercenary pants with all the pockets and reinforced knees and loops and straps you do not understand. You should replace them. That is what a good wife would do. A normal, considerate wife would buy her husband a new pair of pants after accidentally chemically altering them.
So you find the tag.
You squint at it.
Then you type the brand into your laptop.
And about eight seconds later, you sit down on the laundry room floor.
Because absolutely not.
No.
No, that cannot be right.
You click another link. Then another. Then you search the exact model number printed on the tag, convinced you must be looking at some collector’s limited edition tactical nonsense instead of a pair of pants your husband regularly gets mud, blood, and suspicious foreign dirt on.
The price does not get better.
Three hundred dollars.
Over three hundred, actually, depending on the site.
For pants.
Pants.
You stare at the screen, cottoned mouth open, feeling personally attacked by the concept of tactical apparel.
By the time Phillip gets home, you have relocated to the couch with your laptop open, the bleach-stained pants folded on the coffee table like evidence in a murder trial. You have gone through at least six stages of grief and are currently hovering somewhere between anger and financial nausea.
The front door opens.
“Darlin’?” Phillip calls.
You do not answer.
His steps sound through the hall. A moment later, he appears in the living room, freshly showered from the gym, hair damp, wearing a t-shirt and shorts like he is not the cause of your current crisis.
He slows when he sees you. Then he sees the pants. Then the laptop.
His expression shifts.
“What’d I do now?”
You turn the laptop toward him.
“Phillip Graves.”
His brows lift.
“Yeah?”
“Why the fuck are these pants three hundred dollars?”
For one beautiful second, he just stares at you. Then he looks at the laptop. Then back at you.
Then, with the calm of a man who has clearly lost all sense of what normal pants cost, he says, “Because they’re good pants.”
You blink.
“They are pants.”
“They’re work pants.”
“They are three-hundred-dollar work pants.”
He spreads his arms a bit and shrugs, “Technically, I think those were three-twenty.”
You inhale through your nose, eyes serious and distraught.
Phillip watches you do it, and the corner of his mouth starts to twitch. He quickly schools his expression and presses his lips together.
You shoot him a look that could cut right through a plate carrier, “Do not smile.”
“I am not,” he counters, his voice higher pitched than normal.
“You are.”
“I’m enjoyin’ myself a little.”
“Phillip.”
He walks farther into the room, still looking far too amused for a man whose pants are wounded on your coffee table.
He sighs and sits on the edge of the coffee table, arms folded, “What happened?”
“I bleached them.”
His gaze drops to the pants.
Then he sees the stain.
For a second, he says nothing.
Your stomach drops.
Then he huffs a laugh.
“That what this is about?”
“Yes, that is what this is about. I was trying to wash them because you left half a Staples store in your pockets again, and I accidentally spilled bleach on them, and now they look like they got into a fight with a janitor.”
Phillip picks them up, inspecting the pale stain with the relaxed confidence of someone who has seen much worse happen to clothing, equipment, vehicles, and, unfortunately, himself.
“These are fine.”
“They are not fine.”
“They’ll still work.”
“They look ruined.”
“They’re work pants, sweetheart. They don’t need to be pretty.”
“They cost three hundred dollars. For that price, they better be pretty, emotionally available, and willing to help around the house.”
That makes him laugh.
Actually laugh.
You point at him.
“This is not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It is not. I thought they would be, I don’t know, maybe eighty dollars.”
His face does something devastatingly smug.
“Eighty?”
“Yes, eighty. Maybe one-twenty if they were fancy.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Do not sweetheart me.”
“Baby, those pants have been dragged through hell and back for three years. A bleach spot ain’t gonna hurt their feelings.”
“It hurt my feelings.”
His smile softens, but only a little.
“You’re cute when you’re scandalized.”
“I am not scandalized. I am financially horrified.”
That gets another laugh out of him. He sets the pants back down and drops onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours.
“You know,” he says, nodding toward the laptop, “if that surprises you, you really don’t wanna start lookin’ up the rest of it.”
You gesture at your chest, miming the velcro attachments you've seen on his vests, “The little pouches?”
“Some of those little pouches are expensive.”
You sit up straighter, “How expensive are we talking?”
“Depends.”
“Phillip.”
He leans back, completely at ease, one arm stretching across the back of the couch behind you.
“Baby.”
“How much do your jackets cost?”
His silence is immediate.
Your mouth falls open, “How much do your jackets cost?” you echo quietly.
“They… it depends on the jacket.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is a very accurate answer.”
You grab the laptop again.
He huffs and reaches for it lazily.
You jerk it away from his hands.
“No. Absolutely not. I am investigating.”
“You are snoopin’.”
“I am doing household financial research.”
“I promise the household is fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
He stares at you.
You stare back.
Then his brows lift, slow and incredulous, “Darlin’...”
“What?”
He says your name like he is trying very hard to be patient and not laugh again.
“You have no idea how much money I make in a year, do you?”
You freeze.
That is not fair.
Obviously, you know Phillip has money. You are not stupid. The man owns a PMC. He wears watches that look expensive from across the room. He has a house that feels like it was built by people who have never once had to check their bank account before ordering appetizers. Like you need a certain credit score just to park in his driveway.
But knowing your husband is rich and staring at three-hundred-dollar bleach-stained mud pants are very different experiences.
“That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
“No, the point is that you are treating three-hundred-dollar pants like they came in a three-pack from Walmart.”
His mouth twitches again.
“They’re not three hundred dollars to me the same way they’re three hundred dollars to you.”
You stare at him and laugh once.
“That is the most rich-man sentence you have ever said to me.”
“Okay, I know how that sounded.”
“Do you?”
“Mostly.”
You close the laptop halfway before you can do more emotional damage to yourself. You rub your eyes and groan, palms sparking stars behind your eyelids.
“This is an insane amount of money.”
“They’re important gear.”
“They go on your legs, Phillip.”
“And if they tear, snag, burn, soak through, ride wrong, or fail at the wrong time, that becomes a problem for the legs inside ’em.”
You hate that he has a point. You hate it so much.
He sees your face and smiles, “There it is.”
“What?”
“You realized I’m right.”
“I realized you have brainwashed me into respecting the pants.”
“As you should.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
His arm shifts from the back of the couch to curl loosely around your shoulders, pulling you in against his side like the whole argument has only made him more fond of you.
You let him, but only because you are weak and he smells good after his post-gym shower.
Also because you are still emotionally recovering from the price of the pants. You glance back at the stained pair on the table, then at him.
“So what’s the most expensive thing?”
His face goes blank.
Too blank.
You sit up, “Phillip.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, I am absolutely worrying about it now.”
“Darlin’.”
“No. What is the most expensive thing you wear to work?”
He rubs a hand over his jaw, already regretting whatever is about to happen.
“Wear, or carry?”
You go still.
“Those are different categories?”
His silence answers for him.
You drop your face into your hands, “Oh my god.”
Phillip laughs under his breath and reaches over to tug gently at your wrist.
“Come here.”
“No. I need a minute.”
“You don’t need a minute.”
“I just found out my husband has categories of expensive work accessories. I need several minutes.”
He pulls your hand down anyway, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
You do.
He is still smiling, but softer now.
“You don’t need to replace the pants.”
“I bleached them.”
“They’re pants.”
“They’re three-hundred-dollar pants.”
“They’re my pants. I don’t care.”
“You should care.”
“I care that you’re sittin’ here actin’ like you bankrupted us over a bleach spot.”
“I was trying to be responsible.”
“I know.” His thumb moves over your hand again. “It’s sweet.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Do not make this tender. I am mad at your pants.”
His smile turns fond.
“You can be mad at the pants.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t be mad at yourself.”
That softens you against your will.
Phillip leans a little closer, his voice lowering into that warm, coaxing register that always makes you feel like he is about to talk you into something.
“I’m serious. You didn’t do anything wrong. I throw those things around, bleed on ’em, crawl through God knows what in ’em. You think I’m gonna be upset because my wife tried to wash ’em?”
“You might have been.”
He looks genuinely offended.
“At you?”
You shrug, suddenly feeling a little foolish. His expression changes. The teasing eases off.
“Hey,” he says, quieter.
You look at him.
“I’m not mad.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m not mad. I’m not even annoyed. If you lit the damn things on fire, I’d buy another pair and ask if you were warm enough.”
Your chest does something stupid.
“That is also a rich-man sentence.”
“That is a husband sentence.”
You roll your eyes, but you are smiling now.
He sees it and smiles back, victorious.
“There’s my girl.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“And I make enough money to buy pants.”
You laugh, and he leans in to kiss your temple again. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth, because apparently winning an argument about tactical pants has made him affectionate.
You push lightly at his chest, “Stop trying to charm me.”
“Is it workin’?”
“No.”
He kisses your jaw.
“Liar.”
For a moment, the crisis settles. The laptop sits half-closed on the coffee table. The bleach-stained pants remain dramatically folded between you like the world’s most overpriced evidence. Phillip’s arm rests warm around your shoulders, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your upper arm, and you let yourself relax into the ridiculousness of it.
Then a thought occurs to you.
You turn slowly.
“Wait.”
Phillip closes his eyes like he senses danger.
“How much was the watch?”
“Nope.”
“Phillip.”
“We are not doing this.”
“How much?”
“Absolutely not.”
You grab the laptop.
He grabs you around the waist and pulls you back into the couch before you can open it, careful but firm, laughing against your shoulder when you start protesting.
“Put the computer down.”
“No. I deserve to know.”
“You do not.”
“I am your wife.”
“Exactly. I’m protectin’ you.”
“From what?”
“The truth.”
You gasp.
“That bad?”
He presses a kiss to the side of your neck.
“Worse.”
“Phillip Graves.”
He laughs again, warm and low, and holds you tighter when you try to squirm away.
“Baby, deep breath. I promise you, we can afford the pants.”
“That is not comforting anymore.”
“It should be.”
“It is making me wonder what else in this house costs more than my student loans.”
He goes quiet.
You slowly turn your head.
“Phillip.”
He kisses your cheek.
“Love you.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Sure it is.”
“No, it is a distraction.”
“Is it workin’?”
Unfortunately, yes.
You hate that too.
You look at him, at his smug mouth and warm eyes and the stupid expensive t-shirt he is probably wearing like it came off a clearance rack, and you sigh.
“You are banned from leaving tactical clothing in the laundry room.”
“Fair.”
“And you are banned from saying ‘don’t worry about it’ when I ask how much something costs.”
“Less fair.”
“And you are banned from leaving pens in your pockets.”
He winces.
“Now, hold on.”
“No. I found four pens.”
“Useful.”
“A notebook.”
“Also useful.”
“Loose change.”
“Emergency funds.”
“A cough drop covered in lint.”
He pauses.
“Preparedness.”
“You are a menace.”
“Your menace.”
You glare at him.
He grins.
“And I am never looking up your watch.”
“Good call.”
You narrow your eyes.
He lifts his brows, smug as anything.
Then, after a beat, he nods toward the pants.
“For what it’s worth, they do make my ass look good.”
You stare at him.
Phillip stares back, completely shameless.
“That is the worst part,” you say.
His grin turns wicked.
“Yeah?”
You look at the pants.
Then at him.
Then, with great irritation, you mutter, “They kind of do.”
Phillip laughs so hard he has to pull you into his side, and you let him, still annoyed, still scandalized, and very aware that you have somehow married a man whose laundry basket contains a mortgage payment.
And later, when he goes to start dinner, you look up the watch anyway.
By the time he comes back, you are staring at him from the couch with the quiet, wounded expression of a woman who has just learned her husband wears a down payment on his wrist.
Hi! Me again with the angsty asks,I was thinking about something with insecure!Reader? Like not about their body,could be that too,but about feeling like they don't deserve love and constantly apologizing and being left out.If you don't wanna do it or if I made you uncomfy,please let me know! I'm also self projecting ,again.I also really love your writing and I genuinely think that you capture Phillip s persona SO GOOD .I literally binge your fanfics in class.
First of all, never apologize for angsty asks. You are feeding me directly from the palm of your hand, actually.
Second, the “binge my fanfics in class” part made me laugh so hard. I am honored, but please at least pretend to take notes so I do not become academically liable.
But insecure!Reader with Phillip?
Oh, he would notice.
Not right away, maybe. Not because he is careless, but because at first it would look like politeness. Sweetness. You saying sorry when you bump into him in the kitchen. Sorry when you ask if he wants coffee. Sorry when you text him twice. Sorry when you get quiet at dinner because the conversation moved too fast and you did not know where to fit yourself.
At first, he would let it pass.
Then he would start hearing the pattern.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Like you are apologizing for existing close enough to be loved.
And Phillip Graves is a patient man when he wants to be, but he is not a passive one.
So I imagine it coming to a head after some evening with the Shadows. Nothing terrible happens. No one is cruel to you. No one excludes you on purpose. It is just one of those nights where everyone knows each other too well, where the jokes are too fast and the stories are half-finished because everyone at the table already knows the ending.
You sit beside Phillip and smile when you are supposed to. You laugh when everyone else laughs. You try not to look as lost as you feel.
But Phillip notices.
Of course he notices.
He notices when your smile starts coming a second too late. He notices when your hand slips from his knee under the table because you think maybe you are being clingy. He notices when someone talks over you by accident and you fold the rest of your sentence away like it was nothing worth keeping.
He does not say anything there.
He just reaches under the table, catches your hand, and puts it back on his thigh like that is where it belongs.
You glance at him.
He does not even look away from the conversation.
Just squeezes your fingers once.
Later, in the truck, you are quiet.
Phillip lets the silence sit for a while. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the center console. He glances at you once, then twice.
“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours,” he says, “or am I supposed to start guessing?”
You blink over at him. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Mm.”
“I’m serious.”
“Darlin', you have apologized to me six times tonight.”
Your stomach drops a little.
“I have not.”
“You apologized when I handed you your coat.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“You apologized when Oz asked you to pass the salt.”
“That was just manners.”
“You apologized to the chair when you bumped into it.”
You look out the window.
Phillip’s mouth twitches, but his voice stays gentle.
“Now, I’m not sayin’ the chair didn’t appreciate it.”
“Phillip.”
“There she is.”
You hate how quickly your eyes start to sting.
His humor softens immediately.
“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”
You do, reluctantly.
He pulls into the parking lot outside his apartment but does not get out. He puts the truck in park, then turns toward you, one arm braced along the steering wheel.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Something happened.”
“No, it’s just...” You swallow, embarrassed by your own voice. “I don’t know. Everyone knows each other so well, and I felt stupid trying to jump in. And then I felt stupid for being quiet. And then I felt stupid because you kept checking on me and I didn’t want you to think you had to babysit me.”
Phillip’s face changes.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Babysit you?”
You shrug, looking down at your lap. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
There is something firmer in his voice now.
You rub your thumb against the seam of your jeans.
“I just don’t want to be annoying.”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
That earns you a look.
“I know what annoys me.”
You give him a watery, disbelieving little smile. “Yeah?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He leans back, counting on his fingers. “Cheap bourbon. Bad intel. Men who talk too much in rooms where they ought to be listening.”
Despite yourself, you almost laugh.
His eyes stay on your face.
“You are not on that list.”
Your smile fades.
The truck feels too quiet.
“I just don’t want to be too much,” you admit.
Phillip studies you for a moment.
Then he says, very carefully, “Who told you that you were?”
Your throat tightens.
You look away.
He does not push. He does not demand a name. He does not turn it into an interrogation, even though you know he could. He just sits there, waiting, jaw tight in a way that tells you he already hates whoever taught you to talk about yourself like that.
“No one,” you say.
“Darlin'.”
You close your eyes.
“I don’t know. Lots of people. No one specific. It’s not like that.”
“It is exactly like that.”
You shake your head. “I’m sorry.”
His hand comes up, not touching your face yet, just hovering near your chin.
“There it is again.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Sorry.”
His brows lift.
You groan softly and cover your face. “I can’t stop.”
Phillip’s hand closes gently around your wrist and lowers it from your face.
“Then we’ll work on it.”
That makes you look at him.
“We?”
“Yes, we.” His thumb moves once over the inside of your wrist. “You think I’m letting my girl apologize herself out of every room she walks into?”
Your chest aches.
His girl.
You hate how badly you need to hear it.
“I don’t know how to not feel like that,” you whisper.
Phillip’s expression softens, but only a little. He has never been the kind of man to drown you in pity. Somehow, that makes it easier.
“You don’t have to know tonight.”
You stare at him.
“You just have to believe me when I tell you that I want you here.”
“I do believe you.”
“No, you don’t.”
It is not cruel.
It is too accurate to be cruel.
Your mouth trembles.
Phillip leans in a little, voice dropping.
“If you believed me, you wouldn’t keep looking for the exit before I’ve even opened the door.”
That one hits hard enough that you have to blink back tears.
“I’m not trying to.”
“I know that.”
“I don’t want to be difficult.”
“You are not difficult.”
“I feel difficult.”
He exhales through his nose, like he is holding back several things he wants to say about whoever made you feel that way.
Then he cups your face.
Warm palm. Steady fingers. No hesitation.
“Listen to me,” he says. “I do not love you because you are convenient.”
Your breath catches.
“I do not love you because you are easy to fit into my life. I do not love you because you stay quiet, or because you apologize pretty, or because you make yourself small enough that nobody has to move over.”
Tears slip down your cheeks.
His thumb catches one.
“I love you because you are you,” he says. “And I am very fond of you taking up space in my life.”
You let out a small, broken laugh.
“Very fond?”
His mouth curves. “Extremely fond.”
“That’s romantic.”
“I can make it filthier if that helps.”
“Phillip.”
“There she is again.”
You laugh for real this time, even though you are crying.
He smiles, but his eyes stay serious.
“You got left out tonight,” he says. “I should’ve pulled you in better.”
“You don’t have to manage me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I can pay attention.”
That shuts you up.
Because that is different.
That is not babysitting. That is not pity. That is not him acting like you are fragile.
That is Phillip saying he sees you.
All of you.
Even the parts you try to hide before they inconvenience him.
You look down at his hand around yours.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, then immediately wince.
He sighs.
You look up at him, worried.
But he is smiling.
A little.
“Alright,” he says. “New rule.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” He taps your chin lightly with his knuckle. “Every time you apologize for something that does not require an apology, I get a kiss.”
Your face warms. “That is not a rule.”
“That is absolutely a rule.”
“That feels like you’re rewarding me for doing it.”
“Fine. Every time you apologize for something that does not require an apology, I get to remind you that you’re mine and you’re wanted until it sticks.”
You go still.
Phillip’s smile fades into something gentler.
“Too much?”
You shake your head.
“No,” you say softly. “Not too much.”
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“Good.”
He kisses you slowly. Not to shut you up. Not to distract you. Just to give the words somewhere to land.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“You are not a burden,” he murmurs. “You are not some extra thing I tolerate because I’m too polite to say otherwise. I want you in my truck. I want you at my table. I want your stuff in my bathroom and your cold feet under my leg at night and your voice in my ear when you think you’re talking too much.”
Your eyes close.
“And if you get quiet,” he says, “I’ll come find you.”
That is the part that breaks you a little.
Not I’ll fix you.
Not don’t be insecure.
Just I’ll come find you.
You nod against him, unable to speak for a moment.
Phillip kisses your forehead.
“Now,” he says, voice softening back into that familiar drawl, “you wanna go upstairs and let me prove I’m not tired of you?”
You huff a wet little laugh. “That sounds suggestive.”
“Darlin', I am a man of many layers.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet.”
You look at him.
He smiles.
“And yet,” you whisper.
He kisses your hand before letting go, then gets out and walks around to open your door like it is the most natural thing in the world.
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imagine wife still being called “ms. graves” after the divorce—during a custody hearing something yada yada idk—they both stiffen because damn its expensive to change that last name. i think phillip might think about the fact ex-wife still bears his name
angwul, you are once again putting your finger directly into the bruise and I love you for it.
Because yes.
Yes.
Even after the divorce, there would be moments where you are still Ms. Graves.
Not Mrs. Graves anymore. That distinction matters, legally and socially and in all the ways that make Phillip’s jaw tighten if he thinks about it too long.
But Ms. Graves?
That one still happens.
At the dentist’s office. At your son’s school. On paperwork. On emails from teachers who do not know the whole story and receptionists who have no reason to think twice before saying it out loud.
Graves.
His name.
Your name, too, whether either of you knows what to do with that anymore.
And I think it would hit hardest somewhere awful and ordinary.
A custody hearing.
Not some dramatic courtroom showdown. Nothing cinematic. No raised voices. No slamming doors. No tearful confession in the rain.
Just a family court building that smells like old coffee, printer toner, and somebody’s too-sweet perfume. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Bad carpet worn flat in the walking paths. Plastic chairs lined against beige walls. A vending machine humming in the corner like it has survived every divorce in the county and expects to survive yours too.
You are sitting a few seats away from him with a folder in your lap.
Phillip notices everything about you because he is trying very hard not to look like he is noticing anything at all.
You are dressed carefully, but not too carefully. Nice blouse. Trousers. Flats instead of heels, probably because you had to do school drop-off that morning before coming here, and the thought lands in his chest with a weight he is not prepared for.
Your hair is neat, but one piece keeps slipping near your cheek. Your mouth is set in that composed line he knows too well, the one that means you are trying not to feel anything until you absolutely have to. Every few seconds, your thumb smooths the edge of the folder against your knee.
Over and over.
A tiny, nervous motion.
He remembers when that used to be his cue.
A hand over yours. His thumb pressing once into your palm. A low murmur near your ear.
I got you, Darlin'.
Now he keeps his hands to himself.
Phillip is in a suit because of course he is.
Dark jacket. Crisp shirt. Watch at his wrist. Hair neat. Expression controlled. The kind of calm that makes other men sit up straighter and lawyers choose their words more carefully.
He looks composed.
He is not.
He has been reading the same paragraph of the custody agreement for ten minutes and absorbing none of it. His attorney said something to him a moment ago, some practical thing about holiday rotation or pickup windows, and Phillip nodded like he heard.
He did not.
His attention keeps catching on stupid things instead.
The corner of your folder, softened from being handled too much.
The earrings you are wearing. Small gold hoops. He bought them for you three Christmases ago because you said you wanted something simple you could wear every day, and he had acted like he just happened to remember. Like he had not spent two weeks checking jewelry websites between meetings, irritated with himself for caring so much about getting it right.
The way you still cross one ankle behind the other when you are nervous.
The fact that you do not look at him.
That is probably for the best.
Then the clerk opens the door and calls, “Ms. Graves?”
Both of you stiffen.
It is small.
Almost nothing.
Your shoulders lift by a fraction. His pen stops moving against the page.
But Phillip feels it like the room has gone quiet around that name.
His eyes lift before he can stop them.
Yours do too.
For one awful second, you look at each other.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Not long enough for it to become a moment either of you could be accused of having. Your attorney is already gathering her folder. His is adjusting his glasses. The clerk is checking the file in her hands, bored and efficient.
But Phillip hears it again in his head.
Ms. Graves.
Not Darlin'.
Not sweetheart.
Not baby.
Not his wife.
But still Graves.
Still wearing the name he gave you when he thought forever was something he could sign his way into and then maintain by sheer force of will. Still carrying it on your license, your mail, your bank statements, your son’s school forms. Still answering to it in public like it does not cost you anything.
He knows why you kept it.
Of course he knows.
It is expensive to change a name. Tedious. Exhausting. Driver’s license, social security card, bank accounts, credit cards, insurance, medical records, your son’s emergency contact forms, every stupid login and account and subscription that had quietly absorbed you into his life one letter at a time.
G-R-A-V-E-S
And then there is your son.
That is the reason Phillip lets himself think about most.
Same last name at school. Same last name at doctor’s appointments. Same last name on permission slips, cubbies, little league rosters, the label inside the jacket he always forgets at daycare.
Practical.
That is all it is.
Phillip knows that.
Knowing it does not stop the ugly, selfish ache that opens under his ribs when you stand.
Because for half a second, in that miserable little hallway, some clerk calls you Ms. Graves and his body reacts like the world has forgotten you are divorced.
Like the name still means what it used to mean.
Like you might turn toward him out of habit and wait for his hand at your lower back.
You do not.
You gather your folder, rise from your chair, and walk toward the door all by yourself.
Phillip follows a few steps behind.
That hurts too.
There was a time when he would have stood first. When his hand would have found the small of your back without thought. When people would have looked at the two of you and known exactly what you were to each other.
Now he keeps his hands in his pockets.
In the hearing room, they seat you at separate tables.
Another small cruelty.
You sit with your attorney. Phillip sits with his. There are papers between you. Schedules. Weekends. Holidays. Exchanges. The neat legal dissection of a life that used to happen in one house, around one dinner table, under one roof.
The judge glances down at the file.
“Ms. Graves, you are requesting clarification on holiday rotation?”
There it is again.
Phillip’s pen stills.
You answer clearly. Steadily. Better than him, honestly.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Ms. Graves.
His eyes drop to your left hand.
No ring.
Of course there is no ring.
He knows that. He watched you take it off. He remembers the sound it made when you set it on the kitchen counter. Small, delicate, final. He remembers staring at it after you left the room like it might explain to him how a man could own half the world and still lose the only home he actually wanted.
No ring.
But the name stayed.
That is the thing that gets him.
The ring came off. The house changed. The bed emptied. The lawyers divided everything into what belonged to who. Furniture. Accounts. Holidays. Pickup times. The antique hutch your mother loved. The truck he refused to sell because your son liked riding in it.
And somehow, his name remained.
Not because you wanted him.
Not because you were holding on.
Not because you could not let go.
Because life is inconvenient. Because motherhood is paperwork. Because changing it would cost money and time and energy you did not have after surviving the marriage, the separation, the move, the grief, the exhaustion of becoming someone’s ex-wife while still being someone’s mother.
Phillip knows all of that.
Still, when the judge says it again, he has to look down at the table.
Ms. Graves.
He hates how much he likes hearing it.
He hates himself more for liking it here, of all places.
In a custody hearing.
With you sitting across from him, tired and guarded and too damn far away.
The hearing is not dramatic. Maybe that is worse.
No one shouts. No one says anything cruel. You are both painfully civil, which is its own kind of heartbreak. You discuss your son’s schedule like two professionals trying not to bleed on the paperwork.
Thanksgiving.
Christmas Eve.
Christmas morning.
Spring break.
The little pieces of a child’s year split into columns and conditions.
Phillip agrees to the holiday adjustment.
Your attorney seems surprised.
You look surprised too.
He does not look at you when he says, “That works for me.”
Because it does.
Because it is what is best for his son.
Because it is what you asked for.
Because some habits are harder to kill than others, and giving you what you need still feels like muscle memory.
Afterward, in the hallway, there is an awkward moment where the lawyers step aside and suddenly there is nothing between you but air.
You hold your folder against your chest.
Phillip reluctantly puts his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching for you.
“You didn’t have to agree to that,” you say.
His mouth curves faintly. “Hello to you too.”
You sigh, but there is no real heat in it. “Phillip.”
“I know.” He nods once. “It made sense.”
“It helps with daycare spring break.”
“I figured.”
You look down at the folder, thumb rubbing over the corner.
A silence opens.
Not empty.
Full.
Then you say, quieter, “Thank you.”
He wants to say, Anything for you.
He does not.
That would be unfair.
That would be too honest.
So he says, “Anything for him.”
Your face shifts.
Just slightly.
You both know what he did there.
You both know what he did not say.
The clerk passes behind you with another file in hand.
“Ms. Graves?” she says, not really looking up. “You can check out at the front desk.”
You nod. “Thank you.”
Phillip watches it happen.
Watches you answer to his name without looking at him.
That might be the worst part.
You are used to it now.
It is not a flinch every time. Not for you. It is practical. Ordinary. The name on the file. The name on your ID. The name attached to the little boy you both love more than either of you know how to say without getting mean or quiet.
But Phillip is not used to it.
Not really.
He wonders if you ever thought about changing it back.
He wonders if you looked up the process late one night after your son went to bed. He can picture it too clearly. You sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, a cold mug of tea forgotten beside you. The state website pulled up. Forms. Fees. Instructions. A list of agencies you would have to contact one by one.
He wonders if you saw all of it and closed the tab with a tired little sigh, palms digging into your eyes like they always did when you were overwhelmed.
He wonders if there was a moment where you hovered over the question and thought, Do I want to stop being Graves?
He wonders if the answer hurt.
He hopes it did.
Then he hates himself for hoping that.
You start to walk away, then stop.
Not fully turning around. Just pausing with your shoulder angled toward him.
“For what it’s worth,” you say, voice careful, “I kept it mostly because of him.”
Phillip’s chest tightens.
Mostly.
That word is a loaded gun.
He should not touch it.
He does anyway.
“Mostly?”
You look back at him then.
There is something tired in your face. Tired and honest and sad enough that it shuts him up before he can make a joke.
“It was my name for a long time too,” you say.
Phillip forgets how to breathe for a second.
You give him the smallest, saddest smile.
Then you leave.
He stands there in the hallway long after you are gone, hands still in his pockets, jaw tight, staring at the place where you had been.
People move around him.
A woman in scrubs walks past with a toddler on her hip. A lawyer laughs too loudly near the elevators. Somewhere down the hall, a printer jams and someone curses under their breath. Life keeps going in all its ugly, ordinary ways.
Phillip stays still.
Ms. Graves.
Not his wife.
Not anymore.
But not untouched by him either.
That is the part that ruins him a little.
The world moved on. The marriage ended. The ring came off.
But somewhere on paper, in the dull machinery of everyday life, you are still carrying proof that you once belonged to each other.
And Phillip Graves, selfish bastard that he is, cannot decide if that comforts him or kills him.
Okay but what would happen *if* reader somehow got taken/used against him? A disgruntled client or target that wants revenge? Finds where she works?
Would it be a hostage situation and threat of physical violence or would they try and make him look bad through lies and twisted angled photographs?
Ugh this question has so much potential and I have so many thoughts on this. Took me a while to sort out my thoughts.
I think it starts with a file.
Not a hostage situation. Not some dramatic phone call from a man breathing threats into the receiver.
A file.
A thin one, honestly.
That is what makes it worse.
Phillip is in a good mood when it happens.
He is at Shadow Company headquarters, in his office between meetings, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, wedding band catching the light every time he reaches for his pen. He has only been married a month, and everyone in the building knows it whether he has said much about it or not.
Because Phillip Graves, newly married, is insufferable.
Not sweet in public. Not obvious.
Just easier. Lighter around the mouth. More patient than usual. A little too pleased with himself when someone says Mrs. Graves over the phone and he gets to answer, “I’ll let my wife know.”
That is the problem.
He is happy.
Happy enough to start believing, carefully and privately, that maybe the worst parts of his life can stay where he puts them. That maybe you can know enough about Shadow Company to understand him, but not enough for it to touch you.
You know more than you did when you met him.
You know “private security” was a pretty label for uglier work. You know your husband is not a clean man. You know there are contracts he will not discuss and names he will not say in your kitchen. You know there are times he charms you right out of his home office with a wink and a kiss to the temple before he locks the door behind you.
And still, you married him.
Still, you called him your husband that morning during prime blue hour, skin warm against his, your mouth soft against his jaw, tangled under the bedsheets, and Phillip has been useless about it ever since.
His mind is still half there when someone knocks on his door.
He does not look up. His eyes scan the stack of paper contracts in front of him, but his attention is already drifting toward the end of the day. Toward the sound of his boots at the front door. Toward whatever you might have cooking on the stove when he walks in. Toward the private little smile you get when he comes up behind you and puts his hands on your waist.
The knock comes again.
Phillip exhales through his nose.
“Make it quick.”
One of his men steps inside and closes the door quietly.
Not nervous.
Careful.
Phillip notices.
“We flagged something, sir.”
He scoffs, reaching for the next page on his desk. “Then send it to intel.”
“Already did.”
Phillip’s pen stills.
“And?”
“They sent it back up.”
Slowly, Phillip raises his eyes.
The Shadow in front of him is steady. Good at his job. Not the type to bring half-formed panic into Phillip’s office and call it useful.
But his shoulders are tight. His hand is too firm on the folder.
Phillip’s expression does not change.
“How personal?”
The man does not answer fast enough. Phillip holds out his hand.
“Give it here.”
The folder changes hands.
It is not thick. A few pages. A few photographs. Clean formatting. No red circles. No dramatic warnings. Nothing theatrical enough to dismiss.
Phillip opens it.
Then he sees you.
You leaving work with your bag on your shoulder.
You in a grocery store parking lot, looking down at your phone.
Your car. Your plate. The building where you work.
A grainy photo of the two of you outside a restaurant, his hand at your lower back, your face turned toward him mid-laugh.
Phillip stops breathing. Only for a second. No one else would notice.
His eyes move down the page.
Your full name. Your married name. Known employer. Known vehicle. Usual hours. Common routes.
Relationship to principal: spouse.
Recent marriage confirmed.
There it is. Not a threat.
Not yet.
Just twelve-point font turning his wife into leverage.
Phillip looks at the grocery store photo again.
That is the one that does it.
Because you were probably buying coffee creamer. Strawberries. Laundry detergent. Something normal. Something boring. Something soft that belonged to the life he was never supposed to let anyone touch.
Someone watched you do it. Someone stood close enough to take a picture.
His wife, under fluorescent lights, completely unaware that a piece of Phillip’s world had found her.
The office goes quiet.
His eyes do not leave the photos. His hand moves over his chin, index finger dragging once across his lower lip, and for one sickening second he remembers the taste of your lip balm from that morning. The way it had clung to his mouth after he kissed you goodbye.
Something sweet. Something ordinary.
Something someone had watched him almost lose.
“Where did this come from?”
“Broker channel. Attached to chatter from a client dispute. Looks like leverage material.”
“Distributed?”
“Not public. Not widely, far as we can tell.”
Far as we can tell.
Phillip hates that.
“Who else has seen it?”
“Three of us.”
“Names.”
The man gives them. Phillip memorizes every one.
He closes the folder carefully.
“I want origin, access points, who touched it, who paid for it, and who thought putting my wife in a file was a survivable decision.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And keep it quiet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Quiet,” Phillip repeats, softer now. “Means quiet. No chatter. No speculation. No one gets curious about my wife.”
The man nods once.
“Understood.”
“Where is she now?”
“At work, sir. No active tail confirmed. We are checking nearby feeds.”
“Check faster.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How current are the photos?”
“Last one is from yesterday.”
Yesterday?
Yesterday, Phillip had come home to you barefoot in the kitchen, humming to yourself while sauce warmed on the stove. You kissed him hello with a spoon still in your hand, then told him he was late like that was the worst thing that had happened all day.
He had believed it, too.
For one whole evening, Phillip Graves had believed the worst thing in your life was him missing dinner by twenty minutes.
But someone had watched you earlier that day.
Someone had carried that photo into a channel where men bought ugly information for ugly reasons.
Phillip closes the file.
For one long moment, he does not move.
Then Commander Graves steps into the room so completely that the newlywed husband disappears like smoke.
“Need-to-know only. Her location gets verified every five minutes until she is moving. No direct contact with her workplace. No visible presence unless I order it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Louie takes pickup. Second car two blocks back. Unmarked. Eyes on every exit. Nobody approaches unless there is a credible move toward her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Her car comes home clean. Sweep it before it moves. Sweep it again when it arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Open the house outside the city. Perimeter set. Fresh codes. No staff she does not know. Groceries stocked. Bag packed from the apartment.”
The man hesitates for the first time. Phillip’s eyes sharpen.
“What?”
“Does she know, sir?”
Phillip looks down at the folder.
At your name. At the words potential pressure point.
“No.”
The answer is immediate.
Ugly.
Final.
“She does not know,” he says again, quieter. “And she is not going to find out from one of you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Move.”
The man leaves. The door closes.
Phillip sits alone with your pictures on his desk.
He should call you and tell you the truth.
The thought lasts half a damn second.
Then it dies.
Because if you see the file, you will see yourself the way his world sees you.
A pressure point. A weakness. A way in.
Phillip cannot stand the thought of you knowing that.
So he calls you.
You answer on the third ring, bright and warm and unaware.
“Hi, honey.”
His eyes close. Phillip draws in a slow breath and forces the tension out of his jaw.
“Hey, pretty girl.”
You hum, pleased. “You calling just to hear my voice?”
His gaze drops to the edge of your photograph peeking out beneath the manilla flap.
He makes himself smile because you can hear it when he does.
“Might be.”
You laugh softly. “How newlywed of you.”
“New husband,” he says. “New habits.”
“Careful. I’ll start expecting attention during business hours.”
“That would be a terrible burden.”
“For you, maybe.”
That almost gets him.
Almost.
His mouth curves before he can stop it, and for a second, just one careless second, he lets himself be your husband instead of the man staring at surveillance photos of his wife.
Then his eyes lower again.
Your name. Your workplace. Your car.
Potential pressure point.
The smile leaves him.
“What time are you done today, Babydoll?”
“Probably around five. Why?”
“Thought I’d send a car for you.”
You pause.
“A car?”
“Mhm.”
“Phillip, I drove here.”
“I know.”
“Then why would you send a car?”
His thumb rubs once over his wedding band.
“Because I miss my wife,” he says.
The lie is not that he misses you. That is what makes it so ugly.
You huff a laugh. “You saw me this morning.”
“I did,” he says, letting his voice go soft in the way he knows always reaches you. “And somehow I still want you back.”
You go quiet again.
He knows what he has done.
He knows exactly what that tone does to you. Low, warm, intimate enough to make the rest of the world feel like it has stepped politely out of the room. He has used it on you a hundred times, usually honestly.
Tonight, he uses it on purpose.
The guilt is immediate. It sits under his ribs like a stone.
“You are laying it on kind of thick,” you say cautiously.
“Is it working?”
“A little.”
“Then I’ll keep at it.”
“Phillip.”
There it is.
Not playful anymore.
Not fully.
He can picture you at your desk, brows drawing together, that suspicious little tilt to your mouth that means you are starting to fit pieces together.
He loves that about you.
But he hates it right now.
“What is going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“You know that sentence has never made anyone less worried.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“So let me worry about it.”
You laugh once, but it does not have much air in it. “That is not how that works.”
“It can be.”
“Phillip.”
“Darlin’.”
“No, do not Darlin’ me.”
His eyes lower to the file again.
He deserves that.
He deserves worse.
But the clock on his desk reads 3:47, and every minute you stay in that building feels like a hand closing tighter around his throat.
He softens his voice anyway. Not because it is fair.
Because it works.
“I had a long day,” he says. “And I want my wife somewhere quiet tonight. Dinner, a good bottle of wine, no one asking either of us for a damn thing.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is nice.”
“It also sounds rehearsed.”
His thumb stills on the file.
Smart girl.
“It is not rehearsed.”
“Phillip.”
“It is edited.”
That makes you laugh despite yourself.
He closes his eyes for half a second.
There you are.
There you are, warm and alive on the other end of the line, laughing at him while someone’s photographs of you sit on his desk.
He hates them.
He hates himself more for smiling.
“You are impossible,” you say.
“You like that about me.”
“Sometimes.”
“Tonight can be one of those times.”
“Where exactly is this dinner?”
“A house outside the city.”
“A house,” you repeat.
“It has food, wine, a bed, and cell service.”
“That sounds like a lure.”
“It sounds like your husband trying to spoil you.”
“My husband spoils me,” you say. “Commander Graves makes arrangements and waits for me to call them romantic.”
That lands too close.
Phillip goes still for half a second, his eyes fixed on your photo while the office moves silently around him. Behind the door, his world is already turning. Men at computers. Calls being placed. Names dragged into the light. Every exit quietly closing. Every loose end being tied off with his name on the order.
And you, sweet thing, are on the other end of the phone with no idea that you have just named exactly what he is doing.
But none of that helps him if you insist on driving yourself home. None of that helps him if someone is still watching.
“You trust me?” he asks.
The question is low.
Too low.
You do not answer right away.
He hates that he asked it. Hates that it is not really a question at all, but a hand placed carefully on the scale.
“Yes,” you say finally. “Of course I do.”
The relief that moves through him is sharp enough to hurt.
“Then let me handle tonight.”
“That is vague.”
“I know.”
“On purpose?”
“Yes.”
At least that part is honest.
You exhale softly. He can hear you thinking. He can hear the moment you decide not to push as hard as you could.
He should stop. He should tell you enough.
Instead, he reaches for the one thing he knows you have trouble denying him when he says it like he means it.
And God help him, he does mean it.
“I need you with me tonight,” he says in the same tone he uses when he's tugging you into his chest at two in the morning, tangled together under the duvet.
The line goes quiet.
Your voice comes back smaller. “Need?”
Phillip looks at your photograph again.
At the ordinary softness of your life, caught and cataloged by someone who had no right to see it.
“Yes,” he says. “Need.”
It is cruel.
It is true.
He feels the shape of your resistance change. Not vanish, not completely, but soften around the edges.
“Is this work?” you ask.
“Partly.”
“Is it bad?”
His jaw tightens.
“No.”
The lie is too fast.
He knows it. You know it.
“Phillip.”
“It is handled,” he says, gentler. “Or it will be.”
“That is not comforting.”
“I am aware I’m doing a poor job.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
His mouth curves faintly, but it does not last.
“Louie will be there at five.”
“Louie?”
“You met him at the Christmas party.”
“The one with the mustache?”
“That’s him.”
“He seemed nice.”
“He is.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “Is he armed?”
Phillip goes still.
Not long. Not enough for most people to catch.
But you are not most people.
“He is very good at his job,” Phillip says.
“That is not what I asked.”
“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.”
The truth presses against his teeth.
Yes, Louie is armed.
Yes, there will be another car behind you.
Yes, your car will be brought home by a man Phillip trusts with his life but not with yours.
But he cannot give you all of that while you are sitting at your desk with your name in someone else’s file.
So he says, “I am taking precautions.”
Your voice is softer when you answer.
“Because of me?”
His eyes close. Just once.
“No,” he says.
Then, because the lie tastes rotten, he corrects it before you can.
“Because of me. Because my life comes with things I wish it didn’t.”
There is a long silence.
When you speak again, the suspicion is still there, but something else is there too. Something gentler. Something that makes his chest ache because he has earned so little of it tonight.
“You’re scaring me.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
“Not over the phone.”
“That is not a no.”
“No,” he says quietly. “It is not.”
You breathe out.
He waits.
He does not push now. He has touched every soft place he knows how to touch and dressed it up as romance. He has asked for trust while withholding the truth. He has made himself sound like a husband when he knows damn well he is thinking like a commander.
For one terrible second, he wants you to refuse him.
Not because he would let you.
Because then at least the guilt would have somewhere to go.
Instead, you sigh, your voice tired.
“I hate when you do this.”
And God help him, that breaks his damn heart.
His grip tightens on the phone.
“I know.”
“You get all sweet and Southern and impossible, and then somehow I’m unreasonable if I don’t let you rearrange my entire evening.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth despite everything.
“That is a very uncharitable description.”
“It is an accurate description.”
“It can be both.”
“Phillip.”
His smile fades.
“I am sorry,” he says.
That surprises you. He can hear it in the way your voice pitches up.
“For what?”
For the file.
For the photographs.
For not telling you.
For knowing exactly how to get you into that car and doing it anyway.
For loving you in a way that has teeth.
“For rearranging your evening,” he says, because it is the only apology he can safely give.
You are quiet for another moment. Then you sigh.
“Five?”
Relief moves through him so hard he almost has to put a hand flat on the desk to catch himself from tipping over.
“Five.”
“And my car?”
“I’ll have it brought home.”
“My bag?”
“Handled.”
“That is a very Commander Graves answer.”
His eyes drop to the file.
“I have been called worse.”
You do not laugh that time. Neither does he. The quiet between you stretches, soft and uneasy.
Then you say, “I’ll get in the car.”
Phillip’s eyes close. He does not let the breath out too quickly. He does not let himself sound as relieved as he is.
“Thank you.”
“But you are telling me something tonight.”
His thumb brushes over your photograph.
Not the whole truth, he thinks.
Not unless he has to.
“Something,” he agrees.
“You’re impossible,” you mutter.
“And handsome.”
“Currently debatable.”
“I’ll wear you down in person.”
“I am sure you will try.”
His mouth curves, but his eyes burn.
“I love you,” he says with his whole chest.
He does not mean to say it like that.
So bare. So abrupt. Almost clumsy.
The line goes still. Then your voice softens.
“I love you too.”
For a second, Phillip cannot speak.
Because there you are, giving him that while he sits in front of a file that proves his world has already reached for you.
Because you trust him.
Because he is using it.
Because he loves you enough to do it anyway.
“Five o’clock,” he says, once he trusts his voice.
“Five o’clock.”
“And Darlin’?”
“Yeah?”
“When Louie gets there, go straight to him.”
The silence that follows is thin and cold.
Then you answer, quieter than before.
“Okay.”
He hates that.
He hates that you heard the order underneath the softness.
He hates that you obeyed it anyway.
“I love you,” he says again, softer this time. Safer.
A promise dressed as a distraction. An apology he has not earned yet.
“I know,” you say.
And for the first time all day, Phillip wishes you did not know him quite so well.
The call ends a few seconds later.
He keeps the phone in his hand after the line goes dead.
Then he looks down at the file.
At your face.
At the life someone thought they could use against him.
The guilt does not leave. Neither does the fear.
Phillip folds the folder closed with careful hands and sets his palm flat over it, like he can cover your name by force.
At four fifty-eight, Louie checks in.
“Eyes on her.”
Phillip stands.
“Status.”
“She’s leaving the building now.”
Phillip does not breathe.
“Alone?”
“Yes, sir. She sees me.”
A pause.
Then Louie’s voice lowers slightly.
“She’s coming over.”
Phillip closes his eyes.
Just once.
“Good.”
Another pause.
“Passenger secure.”
Only then does Phillip breathe normally.
Not fully.
But enough.
“Move.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line clicks off.
Phillip turns back to his office.
To the file.
To the men waiting outside for orders.
Commander Graves picks up the file.
Commander Graves opens the door.
Every man in the hallway straightens when he steps out.
He looks at them once, calm and cold and no longer smiling.
“Find who made this,” he says. “Then find who paid for it.”
No one asks what happens after.
No one needs to.
Someone put Phillip Graves’ wife in a file.
And Phillip Graves has never been a forgiving man.
Idk if I’m dumb and can’t find it or something, but like how old was the kid when graves and reader divorced? Did he understand it, does he even really understand it now? Or was it early in his life that he doesn’t really remeber what not having divorced parents is like??
This is so not what you asked, but I started thinking about it more and kind of broke my own heart with it. So instead of giving a normal answer, I wrote a little something from his perspective.
But timeline-wise, during the Little League era, he is around four, almost five. The divorce happened when he was little, probably around two-ish, so he was old enough to feel it, but not old enough to really understand what it meant.
Like, he was old enough to cry when Daddy left. Old enough to notice when routines changed. Old enough to be upset when one parent was suddenly not coming home to the same house anymore.
But he was not old enough to understand divorce as this big adult thing. He would not have understood the paperwork or the finality or the emotional weight of it. He just would have known that something changed. Mom was sad. Dad was gone more. There were two houses now.
So by the time Little League starts, split custody is mostly normal to him. But I do think there are still little blurry memories and feelings tucked away. Not enough to fully remember what it was like when they were married, but enough to know that something used to be different..
He knows some things.
He knows Mama keeps the blue cup at her house because the red one leaks if you tip it sideways.
He knows Daddy has the better cereal, the kind with marshmallows, even though Mama says that is not good breakfast for little men even though it is.
He knows Mama folds his socks together in little balls, and Daddy does not fold them at all. Daddy just throws them in the drawer and says, “They’re socks, buddy. They’ll live.”
He knows Mama’s house smells like laundry soap and the candles she lights after dinner when she finishes wiping the counter.
He knows Daddy’s house smells like leather seats, a lot of coffee, and the soap Daddy uses when he gets home from work.
He knows he has two bedrooms.
One with Mama.
One with Daddy.
He knows that is normal because it has been normal for a long time.
But sometimes, not all the time, he thinks he remembers when it was not.
Not like a movie. Not like one of his cartoons where things happen in order and everyone says what they mean.
It is more like little pictures in his head.
Daddy’s boots by the door.
Mama’s voice in the kitchen with the radio on.
A big bed with too many pillows that would swallow him up on Sunday morning.
Daddy carrying him when he was sleepy, one arm under his legs, one hand on his back, his cheek pressed against Daddy’s shoulder while Mama whispered something close by.
He can’t remember what she said. He remembers the sound of it.
Soft.
Like when Mama talks to him after a bad dream.
He thinks maybe they all lived in the same house then.
He is not sure though.
When he asks Mama about it once, she gets quiet for a second. Not mad quiet. Not sad quiet either. Just the quiet she does when she is trying to find the right words.
“You were very little,” she says, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“I’m big now.”
“I know,” she says, and smiles, but not all the way. “So big.”
He likes when Mama says that.
He also does not like it.
Because sometimes grown-ups say “so big” when they mean something else.
Daddy says it too.
Usually when he is helping him put on his cleats before tee ball. Daddy kneels in front of him, big hands working the laces, making two tight knots so they do not come undone when he runs.
“Look at you,” Daddy says. “Gettin’ too big on me.”
“I’m almost five.” He makes sure to hold up his five fingers to prove it.
“Don’t I know it.”
“I can tie them by myself now.”
“Can you?”
He cannot. Not really.
But Daddy lets him try anyway.
Daddy does that. Lets him try. Lets him mess up a little bit before he fixes it.
Mama fixes things faster before his face gets all hot and his chest gets loud.
Mama sees the problem before he even knows there is one. She wipes the jelly off his cheek before he can lick it. She reminds him about his glove before he forgets it. She knows when he is going to cry before he starts crying.
Daddy lets him get mad first.
Puts his hands on his hips for a minute, then squats down.
Then he says, “You done?”
And when he says no, because his feelings are too loud still, Daddy waits.
That is one of the differences between them. He knows a lot of differences.
Mama cuts his sandwiches in triangles.
Daddy cuts them in squares because he says triangles are suspicious.
Mama sings in the car.
Daddy does not sing unless he thinks nobody is listening.
Sometimes, they sing the same song. He never tells them that.
He just sits in the backseat, swinging his feet, listening to Mama sing it soft and pretty on the way to school, bright and sunny when she checks on him in the rearview mirror. Then Daddy hums it low and soft under his breath on the way to practice.
He likes that a lot. He likes knowing they both know the same words.
It makes him feel, in a way he cannot really explain in his big little heart, like there are still some things that belong to all three of them.
Mama says, “Use your words.”
Daddy says, “Tell me what happened.”
They mean the same thing.
He thinks.
He has learned which things go in which house.
His baseball glove goes back and forth.
His favorite pajamas mostly stay at Mama’s because Daddy says the dryer at his place “eats small clothes,” which makes him laugh every time.
His dinosaur goes wherever he goes.
Mama says that is fine.
Daddy says a man needs backup.
He knows Tuesdays are usually Mama days. He knows Fridays are usually Daddy days.
He knows sometimes Daddy is late.
He knows Mama pretends not to watch the clock when Daddy is late, but she does. She looks at the oven clock, then at her phone, then at the driveway. She moves around a lot more by the windows. He sees it when he plays in the living room with his Legos.
When Daddy finally comes, Mama opens the door before he knocks.
She always says, “You’re late.”
Sometimes she sounds annoyed. Sometimes she sounds tired.
Sometimes she sounds like she was scared and does not want anyone to know, like when he runs upstairs from the basement fast when the lights are off.
Daddy always says something back.
“Traffic.”
“Work ran long.”
“Miss me that bad?”
Mama never laughs at that last one. Except sometimes she almost does.
He notices things like that.
Grown-ups think kids do not notice, but they do.
They notice when people stop talking when they come into the room.
They notice when Mama says Daddy’s name differently than she says everybody else’s.
They notice when Daddy looks at Mama for too long.
At Little League, they both come.
That is his favorite part.
Mama brings the folding chair and the big bag with water bottles and snacks and sunscreen and everything anyone might need. Daddy brings nothing except sunglasses and too much confidence.
“Buddy’s got an arm,” Daddy tells another dad, like he is not talking about his own kid.
Mama rolls her eyes.
“He is four.”
“Almost five,” he corrects his Mama, because that matters.
Daddy points at him. “See? Little man knows his stats.”
Mama smiles then. A real smile.
Not big.
But real.
He sees it from the dugout, through the fence.
He likes when they stand close.
They do not stand close a lot.
Other parents do. Other parents sit together in chairs. Other parents share drinks and touch each other’s shoulders and argue about who forgot the sunscreen like it is funny.
Mama and Daddy stand apart.
Not far apart.
Just not together.
Like there is an invisible line in the grass between them, and neither one wants to be the first to step over it. But sometimes Daddy leans down to say something close to Mama’s ear, and Mama looks away fast, like she is mad.
He does not think she is mad.
Not really.
He knows what Mama looks like when she is mad.
This is different. But her face still gets all warm like it does when she's mad at something.
This is the face she makes when he asks where babies come from and she says, “We are not doing that before school, Baby.”
At the game, he misses the ball once.
Then twice.
Then the third time, it rolls right past his foot.
He feels his face get hot too.
The other kids are yelling, but not mean yelling. Baseball yelling. Still, it feels too loud.
He looks over before he can stop himself.
Mama has both hands near her mouth.
Daddy is standing very still.
Then Daddy cups one hand around his mouth and calls, “Shake it off, buddy.”
So he does. Because Daddy said it like it was already true.
He shakes his little shoulders side to side in a little wiggle that makes Mama and Daddy both laugh.
He doesn't get what's so funny though.
Later, when the game is over, Daddy kneels in the grass to help him with his cleats. Mama already has his extra shoes in the bag, because Mama remembers things like that.
But Daddy does it anyway, big hands careful with the knots.
Mama stands nearby with his water bottle and backpack.
“Thank you,” she says.
Daddy looks up at her, just a little. His mouth does that slow thing.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Happy to be of service.”
Mama makes a clicking noise and looks away, her cheeks warm and sunny.
He does not know why. Daddy is just helping with his shoes.
“Phillip,” Mama says.
Not mad. Not regular.
Different.
Daddy looks back down at the laces, smiling like he did something.
Mama looks toward the parking lot, but her mouth does the almost-smile thing too.
The one Daddy always sees.
And even though he does not understand what happened, he knows something did.
He looks between them while Daddy unties his shoe.
“Are you coming to dinner?”
The question comes out before he thinks about it.
Mama goes quiet. Daddy’s hands pause on the laces.
Just for a second.
He wishes he did not see it.
But he does.
Daddy looks up at Mama. Mama looks at him. Then they both look at the grass.
It is always like this when he asks something that sounds easy but is not easy.
He does not know why dinner is hard.
Dinner is not hard at Mama’s house.
Dinner is not hard at Daddy’s house.
Dinner is only hard when he asks if they can both be there.
“Not tonight, Baby,” Mama says gently, petting the top of his baseball cap.
“Your mama’s got you tonight,” Daddy says.
“You could come.”
Daddy smiles. It is not his happy smile.
It is the other one.
The one grown-ups use when they are trying to make something sound fine.
“I got some work to handle.”
Daddy always has work.
Mama looks away.
He feels something in his stomach go small.
Not like crying. Not exactly.
Just small.
“Okay,” he says.
Daddy touches the brim of his cap. “Hey...”
He looks up.
Daddy’s face is softer now.
“You played good today.”
“I missed the ball.”
“You kept tryin’.”
Mama says, “That matters more.”
They say it at the same time. Then they look at each other.
For a second, nobody says anything.
And it happens again. That weird feeling. The invisible line in the grass.
The thing between them that is not yelling and not talking and not gone.
He thinks maybe that is what divorce is.
Not just two houses. Not just two toothbrushes. Not just Mama’s car and Daddy’s truck and different pajamas in different drawers.
Maybe divorce is when people still know how to say the same thing at the same time, but they do not go home in the same direction afterward.
He does not know how to say that.
He is four. Almost five.
So he just holds Mama’s hand when they walk to the car.
Daddy walks with them because he always does. Even if he is not coming. Even if Mama says, “We’re fine,” Daddy still walks them.
At the car, Mama opens the back door.
Daddy crouches beside him.
“Give me a hug.”
He does.
Daddy smells like grass and sun and that soap from his house. Daddy’s arms are strong around him, but not too tight.
“Love you, little man.”
“Love you too.”
Daddy kisses the side of his head, then stands.
For a second, Daddy’s hand stays on the top of the car door.
Mama is on the other side, buckling him in.
They are close now. Closer than they were at the field. Close enough that Daddy could touch her if he wanted.
He does not.
Mama clicks the buckle.
“There,” she says. “All set.”
Daddy looks at her.
“Drive safe.”
Mama’s mouth moves like she wants to say something else first.
Then she says, “I will.”
That is all. But it does not feel like all.
It feels like when Mama reads a book and stops before the last page.
He looks out the window while Mama shuts the door. Daddy bends a little and taps the glass with his knuckles.
He presses his hand to the window.
Daddy smiles. A real one this time.
Then Mama gets in the front seat. She starts the car. For a second, she does not drive.
She looks straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.
Daddy is still standing there.
He can see him through the window.
“Mom?”
Mama blinks.
Then she looks back at him in the mirror.
“Yeah, Baby?”
“Were you and Daddy married when I was little?”
Her face changes. Not a lot.
But enough.
“Yes,” she says softly. “We were.”
“Did we live in one house?”
“Yes.”
He thinks about that.
Daddy’s boots by the door.
Mama’s voice in the kitchen.
The big bed.
The soft talking.
“Do I remember it?”
Mama is quiet for a long time. Then she reaches back and squeezes his knee.
“Maybe a little.”
He nods.
Outside, Daddy lifts one hand before they pull away.
Mama lifts hers back.
Small. Quick.
Like it does not count if nobody talks about it.
He watches Daddy get smaller through the back window.
He thinks about one house. He thinks about two.
He thinks about how Mama and Daddy both said the same thing at the same time.
You kept trying.
That matters more.
He does not understand why they are divorced.
Not really.
He does not understand the word the way grown-ups do. He does not know about papers or lawyers or hurt feelings that got too big to fit in one house. He does not know what happened before he was old enough to keep the memories in order.
He only knows the shape of it.
Two houses.
Two bedrooms.
Two goodnight kisses, but never from both of them in the same room.
Mama getting quiet.
Daddy looking too long.
The feeling that something used to be together and now lives apart.
And sometimes, when they are both at his game, standing close enough to share the same patch of sun, he thinks maybe they remember it too.
Keegan randomly mumbling, “I wanna spend the rest of my life with you.” When you’re sleep in his arms or something when you’re both like 18.
And you do in fact, spend the rest of your life with him.
There was a tipping point (there always is) but never an end, always the first to apologize. So timid trying to hold your hand when the words fall from his lips, ‘I’m sorry.’ A man who can be nonchalant with everyone but he can’t help but stare at you for a life time. The love and longing in his blue eyes, pupils dilating as he becomes memorized by you again.
Whether it be when you wake up, scratching yoru stomach in a scarf, blinking through the sunlight that hurt your eyes. Or the way you hold him even close be it just randomly or after a fight, the way you dance around the house playing your favorite songs, terrible singing he only encourages to sing louder. The way you don’t have an issue with correcting him, all while he slides a hand to the small of your back and kiss all over your face. Spontaneous trips when he’s free or how you just get so soft with him. Want to do the mundane or some scrapbooking with him. Listen to him talk all day long about his favorite art work.
He’s imagined so many different variations of the house with the white picket fence for you, maybe one day as he stares at the side of your face it’s some 3 bedroom lake house, with a dog or two, quiet evening by the fire or when he sees you all dressed up for a date. Taking the lead and guiding him through the city, it’s some small apartment but it’s cozy, the two of you, a little Terrace for grilling, take the little baby to the park so they can run around in the grass. Or when he’s done making love to you, the after glow on your body as he wipes you down, it’s that classic house, 4 bedroom, one for a shared office, two for the kids who are causing havoc, one for you both to share. Sneaking long kisses before your kids are dragging you off to play in the quaint back hard. Letting them climb all over him while you watch not so far away giggling uo a storm, pointer on how to defeat the dragon he’s become for them.
Stupid in love, always in love, let the years go by yout yout hair turns grey with wrinkles and frown lines and the whole galore, and Keegan would find a new way to love you, to be in love with you. Want to explore that pretty kind of you’re all over again. Nuzzle his head in your curly hair full of products, bring you another plate of food, footsie at dinner with the grandkids—
“Keegan!” You call out to him, snapping in his face. “Are you listening or not? I’m feelin alone in the conversation.” You laugh off, falling back against the armchair of the couch.
His eyes soften, cheeks becoming red whilst he grabs a decorative pillow to hide his face. He peeks his eyes at you, drawn to that beautiful face of yours. Smirking with your eyebrow raised.
“Just… your my everything Dollface, think you’ve got my heart pounding just from looking at me for so long.”
You laugh, playfully nudging him, “You’re joking.”
The pillow squeeze in his hand, can’t help the corners of his lips curving upward, “There it goes again.”
- Husband!Graves who you originally worked for as his secretary, as soon as he saw your sweet smile he decided right then and there that he would be the one to put a ring on your finger
- Husband!Graves that every single morning never fails (unless he's deployed) to embrace you flush against his chest and plant a kiss on your cheek making sure that you're awake first before asking if you want him to make you breakfast. He's not afraid to let you know he loves you, darling.
- Husband!Graves who insists that you put on your wedding dress again every anniversary of your wedding, and makes you sit on his lap sharing a beer while you watch the sun go over the horizon together. "Can't break tradition now, can we, sugar?"
- Husband!Graves who always falls asleep on your shoulder if you two watch a movie together late at night; his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you're sat on his lap. He insists he's just 'resting his eyes'. But you both know that's not true.
- Husband!Graves who has the eyesight of a 50 year old man, but suspiciously only at home. Always beckons you over, his reading glasses perched on his nose, asking you to read something for him. You think it's just an excuse for him to rely on you for a change, but you don't mind, in fact it feels nice, different.
- Husband!Graves who loves spoiling you, to him it's more than just another way for him to dote on you, it's how he shows his love for you in physical form. You been wanting a new designer bag? Done. Out of your expensive perfume? Already in your bedroom. Can you really blame him for wanting to spend his hard earned money on his sweet and caring wife?
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The first time he calls you bird, it isn’t planned.
It slips out low and rough over comms, threaded between gunfire and static.
“Got eyes on the east stairwell—two hostiles,” you murmur, voice steady despite the chaos crackling through your headset. Your fingers move fast across the keyboard, pulling feeds from three separate cameras, stitching angles together in your mind like a map only you can see. “Third one lagging behind, limping. Might be wounded.”
A beat.
Then, in your ear—gravel and smoke and something almost amused.
“Christ… you see everything, don’t you, bird?”
The line goes quiet again, but the name sticks.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
Your world is small, contained.
A dim operations room buried somewhere deep in the base, humming with electricity and recycled air. The overhead lights are always too soft or too harsh—never just right—so you’ve taken to leaving only your desk lamp on. It casts a warm, golden pool over your workspace, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of permanent twilight.
Screens line the wall in front of you—six in total, each flickering with different feeds: satellite imaging, drone footage, helmet cams. One is always reserved for him.
Ghost.
Though you never call him that out loud. Not really.
To you, he’s just a voice. A presence. A constant thread in your ear during long nights and longer missions.
You know the cadence of his breathing when he’s crouched and waiting. The way his voice drops half a register when something’s wrong. The quiet, almost imperceptible hitch when he’s injured but refusing to say it.
You know him in pieces.
“Talk to me, bird,” he says one night, softer than usual.
You glance at his feed. He’s tucked behind a crumbling wall, dust coating the camera lens. There’s blood—dark and drying—on his glove.
“Two tangos left,” you reply. “One on your six, slow approach. Other’s posted near the exit.”
A pause.
Then, quieter.
“You always watchin’ me that close?”
Your fingers still for half a second before you recover.
“It’s my job.”
A faint huff of something that might be a laugh.
“Right.”
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It becomes routine.
Late hours. Your voice guiding him through shadows. His voice grounding you when the silence between updates stretches too long.
Sometimes, when the mission lulls, he talks.
Not much. Never too much.
But enough.
“You ever leave that room, bird?” he asks once.
You glance around at your little corner of the world—half-empty coffee mug, a blanket thrown over the back of your chair, a sticky note peeling off your monitor with scribbled doodles and coordinates.
“Sometimes,” you say. “I think.”
“Think?”
“It’s… easy to lose track of time in here.”
A quiet hum through the comms. Thoughtful.
“Sounds like a cage.”
You swallow, eyes flicking back to his feed.
“Not really.”
A beat.
Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him.
“Still.”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You imagine him, sometimes.
Not the mask—that’s all anyone ever sees.
You imagine the man underneath. The lines of his face, the thoughts in his mind, the way he probably looks at a room before stepping into it.
You build him from fragments.
From silence.
From the way he says your name—rare, but it happens.
From the way he says bird—like it means something.
The first time something goes wrong, really wrong, your hands shake.
“Ghost, you need to move. Now.” Your voice is tighter than you’d like, eyes darting across the feeds. “They’ve rerouted—there’s a squad heading straight for you.”
No response.
“Ghost.”
Static.
Your chest tightens.
“Simon.”
The name slips out before you can stop it.
And suddenly—
“I’m here.”
Relief hits so hard it almost hurts.
“I lost visual,” you say quickly, forcing yourself back into focus. “Camera’s down. You’re blind to me.”
“Not blind,” he mutters. “Still got you, don’t I?”
Your throat goes dry.
You guide him anyway. Off memory, off instinct, off the rhythm you’ve built together over countless missions.
Step by step.
Breath by breath.
Until he’s out.
Safe.
They tell you later it was close.
Too close.
You stay in your chair long after the room empties, screens dimming one by one until only your desk lamp remains.
The silence is louder than gunfire.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You don’t expect to meet him.
Handlers don’t meet operators. That’s not how this works. You’re voices, not faces. Ghosts in different ways.
So when your door opens one evening—quiet, deliberate—you don’t look up right away.
“Room’s off-limits,” you say absently, eyes still scanning reports. “You’ll need—”
You stop.
Because the room feels… different.
Heavier.
You look up slowly.
And there he is.
Filling the doorway like something pulled straight out of shadow. Broad shoulders, tactical gear, the skull mask stark in the low light. Real in a way that steals the air from your lungs.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then—
“…Bird.”
It’s quieter in person. Rougher. Real.
Your heart stutters.
“You’re not supposed to be here..” you manage.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping inside anyway, boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Got that impression.”
He looks around your space—your screens, your notes, your carefully controlled chaos.
“This where you’ve been watchin’ me from?”
You nod, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. How close he is.
“All of it,” you say. “Every mission.”
His gaze shifts back to you.
You can’t see his eyes. Not really. But you feel them.
Heavy. Intent.
“Then I figured,” he says slowly, “it’s about time I saw you back.”
Something tightens in your chest.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Wanted to.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not like before. Not like the empty kind.
This is… full.
“You’re quieter in person..” you say softly.
A faint tilt of his head.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” You hesitate. “But less… hidden.”
A low exhale. Not quite a laugh.
“Funny..,” he murmurs. “Was gonna say the same about you.”
Your lips twitch.
“Guess we’re both a little different off comms.”
“Maybe.” He steps closer—slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
Up close, he’s overwhelming. Not just in size, but in presence. Like standing too close to a storm.
But there’s something else, too.
Something familiar.
“You called me Simon.” he says quietly.
Heat rushes to your face.
“I—thought I lost you.”
A pause.
Then, softer..
“Didn’t.”
Your breath catches.
For a moment, it feels like you’re still on comms—like this is just another fragile thread of connection stretched across distance.
Except there’s no distance now.
Just him.
Just you.
Just the quiet hum of the room that’s held your voice for so long.
When you and Simon first started dating, you’d spend nights at his or your apartments, and he’d wake up at the butt crack of dawn to go for a run. You’d stir a bit in bed when he’d get up, but never wake up. He’d try to convince you sometimes to come with, but who’s he foolin’?
He’d do the same when he was deployed, running laps around base or just back and forth in the hallways.
After you’d gotten married and found out you were pregnant with your first baby, Simon would wake up even earlier, run 10,000 steps faster, and come home to make you breakfast in bed. You’d tell him he didn’t have to, but does he listen?
Once Tommy was born? The runs stopped. Not completely, but they occurred maybe once a week. Instead, Simon opted for double home workouts, so he could be home with you and Tommy.
But today was different.
The sun was just beginning to creep through the curtains, shining a bit of light into the room. The house was quiet, peaceful. Simon had you curled up in his arms, resting against his chest. Nothing could change it.
Except the baby monitor blaring the cries of your 4-month-old throughout your room. Both of you jolt immediately, but Simon pushes you down into the sheets, “I’ve got ‘im.”
He gets up, pulling a pair of shorts over his boxers. He kisses your forehead before heading to check on the baby. He walks to the nursery, picking up Tommy and cradling him to his chest. He hums at the little boy, who calms down almost immediately in his father’s arms.
“Didn’t wanna sleep in, huh? The sun’s barely up,” Simon coos at Tommy. “Yeah?”
Tommy gurgles in his arms. Simon gets an idea.
“Should we go for a run? Huh?” He sets the baby down on his changing table, getting him ready. He changes him into a warmer onesie, along with a little matching hat. Simon slips on a hoodie himself and taps you out of your slumber to let you know where he’s going. You nod, shooing him away.
He heads outside with Tommy in a bassinet-style stroller, softly jogging down the street to the park. His eyes are constantly drifting between the surroundings and his adorable little boy who’s sucking on his own fingers while staring at the sky.
Simon whispers little nothings to him, telling him stories about every one of the trees that they pass.
They finish their jog/walk in about half an hour, walking back into the house to find you making breakfast, a smile on your face. “Did my athletic boys enjoy their run?”
“More so a walk,” Simon kisses your cheek, letting you kiss and cuddle Tommy.
His perfect little family. If only he knew he’d be pushing four strollers soon.
(lil blurb b4 the weekend)
the most random blog ever @sippinallthetea - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
