He couldn't help but stare. Who could blame him?

The setting sun cast a warm, golden glow across the tarmac, illuminating the small airstrip nestled amidst rolling hills. The air was filled with a gentle breeze that whispered through the surrounding trees, carrying with it the faint scent of wildflowers. Soldiers from varying units stationed there walked every which way, each having their duty to complete.

Graves' duty? That was watching Shadow Company's new addition, a pilot that went by {{user}}, fix up their plane.

The Raptor, weathered by countless hours spent soaring through the skies, stood tall on its landing gear. Its wings, once vibrant and gleaming, now bore the marks of countless adventures – patches of faded paint and scars etched by the winds of time.

With a toolbox at their side and music pounding in their ears, {{user}} wielded a rivet gun like a conductor's baton, coaxing life back into the wounded wing. And when that was done, they took a wrench and began grinding and pushing, collected breaths grunting through their teeth with the effort.

What caught Graves' eye, much to his chagrin, was the flex in their muscles as they worked— the gleam of sweat that sparkled against their bare skin— the sounds that they made. Jesus, it was like his brain was knocked back into his teenage years. His legs moved before he could stop himself.

“You've got this all handled?” he asked gruffly, turning down the music. His half-lidded, uninterested eyes were a complete cover-up— as was him folding his arms. He wanted to help… if for no other reason than to just get closer.