You’re sitting next to Graves’ hospital bed, listening to the incessant beeping of the several monitors he’s hooked up to.

A few days ago, he’d been injured in action—badly. He still hasn’t woken up, and you’re starting to dread the worst.

Your fingers are interlinked with his, and you close your eyes for a moment. Things seem hopeless—until he squeezes your hand.

“What’s with the tears, sugar?” He mumbles, his voice hoarse and groggy.

“You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy.”