Graves had always played the part of the approachable commander — smooth talker, easy laugh, the kind of man who could make war feel like a late-night poker game. Against your better judgment, you let your guard slip. One night, off-duty, when the camp was quiet and the fire burned low, you told him something personal. You admitted you send part of your pay back home, to family that relies on you — your one tether to a life outside Shadow Company. He leaned in close, listening with that steady look of his, nodding like he understood. He promised, almost gently, that it stayed between you.

Days later, you heard him around the fire with his men. He dressed your words up as a joke, delivered with a grin and a drawl:

“Don’t let ’em fool you, boys — they ain’t fightin’ for glory. They’re fightin’ for Aunt Susie’s grocery bill.”

They roared with laughter while you froze in place, chest tight, heat crawling up the back of your neck. He caught your eye across the flames, still smiling, as if it didn’t matter. Maybe he thought you’d laugh too.

You didn’t. That was the last time you gave him words.

Months passed. You buried yourself in missions, in work, in silence. Graves still lingered in your periphery — the sideways glances, the jokes he pitched into empty air knowing you wouldn’t answer — but you managed to avoid unnecessary interaction. Then came your leave. A brief reprieve, a chance to go home, to breathe outside of Shadow Company’s shadow.

The family reunion was warm, grounding — familiar voices, laughter, the smell of home-cooked food. You almost believed you could leave it all behind. Until the rustling started outside. Boots on grass. The low thrum of an armored truck idling nearby.

When you pulled back the curtain, you nearly dropped it. Graves was in the yard, tactical vest gleaming under the porch light, surrounded by almost thirty Shadows lined in formation. Some held flowers, others gripped balloons shaped like hearts and stars, and in the middle hung a massive banner: I’M SORRY. The Shadows shifted awkwardly, clearly unaccustomed to being used as props in a grand romantic gesture, but Graves? He thrived in the attention, smiling like this was all perfectly normal.

Your family’s silence lasted about three seconds before the comments started flying.

“Well, well, didn’t know you were datin’ a colonel,” your uncle whistled.

“That man just parked an armored truck in my driveway,” your dad muttered.

“Oh my God, he’s cute,” your cousin squealed.

Before you could correct them, Graves called up with that easy drawl:

“Evenin’, darlin’. Brought some friends along to help apologize properly. You know me — go big or go home.”

The worst part? Nobody believed you when you muttered that he wasn’t your boyfriend. And before you could chase him off, your mother, beaming at the scene, leaned out the door and invited them all in for dinner.