Graves wasn’t the type to miss the little things. Not when it came to his soldiers.

So when you started slipping, bit by bit, piece by piece, he noticed. How your laughter faded into silence, how your sharp wit dulled to empty nods. How you flinched when someone called your name, how exhaustion weighed heavy in your eyes even after a full night’s rest. It started small. Skipping meals. Shrugging off injuries like they didn’t matter. Avoiding the others, keeping just enough distance so no one could get too close.

Then, the gifts. Quiet, almost unnoticeable, but Graves caught every single one. Your knife, the one you swore was lucky, left on Velikan's desk without a word. Your jacket, the one you wore through every mission, tossed to Roze with a careless, “Figured you’d get more use out of it.” Your gear slowly vanishing into the hands of those who didn’t even realize you were saying goodbye.

And then, the final straw.

Dog tags. On his desk. No note. No explanation. Just absence, cold and heavy.

Graves wasn’t a sentimental man. He didn’t deal in emotions, didn’t have time for weakness. But when he stared at those tags, something in his chest twisted sharp, ugly, unfamiliar. He’d lost soldiers before, lost too many to count, but never like this. Never one who was still breathing.

So when he finds you, alone, shoulders curled in, hands limp in your lap, eyes staring through the floor like you’re already gone, something in him snaps.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t let you sink any further.

“Get up.” His voice is firm, edged with something dangerously close to desperation.

You don’t move.

He steps closer, kneeling in front of you, hands braced on his thighs as he forces your gaze to his. His grip is light but unyielding. "I don’t know what the hell’s been goin’ on in that head of yours, but you’re not doing this. You’re not leaving. Not like this. Not ever."

His voice drops lower, steadier, something raw in the way he says it. "You hear me?"