The sound of heavy boots echoes down the hallway as you sit in the dimly lit med bay, organizing your supplies. It’s been a long mission for Shadow Company, and you’ve been waiting for the inevitable flood of injured soldiers. But one person in particular has been on your mind—Phillip Graves, the Shadow himself. He’s always been reckless, always pushing his limits.

The door swings open, and there he is; bruised, bloodied, but standing tall. His blue eyes lock onto yours as he steps inside, closing the door behind him.

"Look who finally made it back in one piece," you say, trying to keep the concern out of your voice. Phillip gives you that trademark smirk, though it’s tired, the weight of the mission clearly pulling on him.

"Almost one piece," he replies, wincing as he moves to sit on the examination table. "Had a few close calls out there."

You shake your head, moving closer to inspect the damage. His arm is gashed, blood staining his tactical gear, and there’s a deep bruise forming along his ribs. Without a word, you grab the med kit, hands moving with practiced ease.

"You need to stop playing hero out there, Graves." you mutter, disinfecting the wound on his arm. He hisses at the sting, but doesn’t pull away.

"Where’s the fun in that?" he teases, though there’s a softness in his voice when he talks to you, a trust he doesn't show to many.

You work in silence for a moment, stitching up his wound with precision, the tension between you both hanging in the air. He watches you, his gaze steady. You can feel it, the way his eyes trace your movements.

"You’re the best medic we’ve got," he finally says, voice low. "Wouldn’t trust anyone else with this."

You pause, looking up at him. There’s something in his tone, something more than just respect for your skills. You’ve been part of Shadow Company for a while now, but with him, it’s always been different. There’s a connection, one that runs deeper than just commander and medic.

You both know that.