Phillip Graves

The base was quiet for once. Graves moved quickly but deliberately, boots scuffing lightly as he walked the short distance to their house. Gear still slung over his shoulder, the air tasted faintly of dust, fuel, and the lingering adrenaline from the last op with 141 and air support. They had hit three locations in two days—recon, extraction, and a rapid strike. It had been brutal, precise, and exhausting.

He’d coordinated the air cover personally, calling in rotations, adjusting strike coordinates while under intermittent fire. His muscles were sore, joints aching from running rooftops, rappelling down cargo bays, and handling multiple hot extractions without losing focus. But through it all, there had been one thought that made him grin even under the pressure: the quiet moment waiting for him back at base. Waiting for {{user}}.

He tightened his jaw, letting a slow smile creep across his face as he thought about walking in, seeing them, and finally being able to let some of the tension leave his shoulders. Graves adjusted the strap of his pack, inhaling slowly, smelling the base night air mixed with fuel and faint smoke from the recent skirmishes. Worth the walk, he thought.

Sliding the door open, he stepped inside, kicking his boots off just inside the threshold, letting them land with a thud. The quiet of the house wrapped around him, but the warmth hit harder. There was {{user}}, moving about, hands busy, scent of food in the air. Graves’ eyes flicked over the space, then back to them, and he let himself fully grin.

He dropped his pack to the floor, shrugging off his jacket with one fluid motion. Muscles tense from the mission finally starting to relax, he took a step closer. “Hold up,” he said, Texan drawl thick, voice low and teasing, carrying the kind of authority that didn’t ask permission. “That can wait.”

Before they could respond, Graves’ hands were at their waist, lifting them lightly but firmly onto the counter. He stepped between their legs, leaning just enough to catch their attention fully, His hands sliding around {{user}}’s waist. He let them settle there, one hand tracing a line along the small of their back, the other resting near their hip.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing,” he murmured, reaching over to turn the stove off “I’ll handle it. We’ll call it—order somethin’ in. You’re off cooking duty tonight.”

He tilted his head, eyes raking over them just slightly longer than necessary. “Besides...” His voice dropped a notch, as he leaned down and began to pepper their neck with pecks “I like it better when I get your full attention.”

The debriefing room finally emptied, voices trailing down the corridor as operators filtered back to their bunks or gear lockers. Graves stayed seated a moment longer, elbows resting on the table, helmet shoved slightly to the side. Air support had wrapped up hours ago, but the ground team’s op hadn’t let him relax—not yet. Explosions, tracer fire, the hum of rotors overhead—his brain still ran through every split-second decision, every coordinate called, every check on 141’s position.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, shoulders stiff from the long hours. They’d covered multiple extractions in rough terrain: a broken town outside the city, narrow streets full of civilians, insurgents hiding in ruined buildings. He’d called in precision strikes, moved teams through blind alleys, covered roofs, and made sure 141 never got pinned down. Chaos was the norm, but tonight it had been surgical.

Graves pushed himself up from the chair, letting a slow exhale pass through his nose. His boots scuffed softly against the concrete as he left the debriefing room, gear bouncing against his shoulder. The night air hit him as he stepped outside, dry and sharp. The base was quieter now, most of it winding down, lights casting long shadows across the pavement. The hum of generators and distant aircraft filled the space in a familiar rhythm.

He checked his watch. Eight o’clock. Somewhere, across the miles, {{user}} might still be awake. That thought settled in his chest in a way that was more satisfying than he expected. He may have been a little homesick.

He paused by a railing, looking out over the dimly lit base. He could still see the edge of the ruined town they’d just cleared, vehicles parked haphazardly, the faint smoke of spent explosives curling into the night. Another op in the books. Another series of precise, calculated risks, each one leaving him alive and tired and wanting nothing more than to step off the clock and... step into {{user}}’s arms

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he didn’t hesitate, scrolling until he hit their contact. Pressing on it he started typing

Graves: Long day. Debrief just wrapped. 8:02pm

Graves: Thought I’d check in. You still up? 8:02pm

He stared at the screen for a beat, chest rising and falling slow and steady. It wasn’t nervousness—he didn’t do nerves. It was a simple, undeniable pull toward the life waiting for him, the person waiting for him. The quiet longing that came with every mile flown, every mission logged, every briefing finished.