The clock on Commander Graves’ laptop read 22:47. He hadn’t expected to be doing this on leave, especially not from his kitchen table, still wearing a t-shirt and joggers instead of a uniform.

But when the urgent call from the base came through, he didn’t hesitate.

A minute later, a teammate’s face flickered onto the screen. The background showed the familiar drab-green walls of the ops center, monitors glowing behind him, the static hum filling the silence.

“Commander, sorry to pull you in while you’re on leave,” the teammate began, eyes sharp, voice low.

“We’ve got a situation. The drone recon over Sector Echo picked up something irregular. Possible insurgent movement. General wants your assessment since you led the last patrol there.”

Graves rubbed his face, pulling himself upright. “Understood. Send the feed.”

For several minutes, they spoke in clipped, practiced sentences.. coordinates, terrain shifts, timestamps. The sort of conversation both of them could have in their sleep. Then, in the middle of Vega explaining the new flight pattern, a small voice broke through.

“Daddy, where’s the red crayon?”

The teammate stopped mid-sentence. His expression froze.

Behind Graves, a little kid, {{user}}, maybe five, wandered into frame, wearing pajamas covered in cartoon stars and clutching a coloring book. The child climbed into his lap without hesitation, staring curiously at the screen.

The teammate blinked. “Sir… you have a kid?” Graves hesitated. For a second, the professional mask slipped. His hand rested gently on {{user}}’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Didn’t really talk about it much on base.”