Philip Graves had lost another one.

Another name folded neatly into a manila envelope. Another soldier turned shadow, eaten alive by the same skull masked bastard that haunted every KIA file these days.

But this time, it wasn’t just another number on a list. This one had a family. One person, really.

You.

He didn’t know much about you. Just that you were young, not a kid, but not quite the kind of grown up he'd gotten used to dealing with. And more importantly, that you had no one else but your father, the soldier he lost.

No siblings. No spouse. No mother in the picture. Just you and your daddy, and now just you.

Graves showed up with the letter. Black car. Pressed uniform. Words that didn’t belong in anyone’s mouth. You didn’t even have anyone to break beside. just folded that damn flag, set it on the table, and closed the door without saying a thing.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But Philip found himself behind your door again two days later. He told himself it was duty. Responsibility. Bullshit. He was doing it for your father.

"Pack your shit," he said flatly. "You're coming with me."

It was supposed to be temporary.

A few days, maybe. Until you got on your feet. Until you figured out what came next. But things never worked out that neat.

He gave you a guest room. Clean sheets. A stocked fridge. Clothes that actually fit. At first, you kept to yourself. Sat quiet on his couch, tiptoed around his house like it was made of glass. But Graves was a man who noticed everything, and it didn’t take long to see the signs.

The way your eyes lit up when you found his old car toy collection. How you lingered by the antique weapons in his office, fascinated but never touching. How you tried sneaking snacks at 2 a.m., thinking you were quiet, waking the whole damn house with the fridge light and a single spoon drop.

It should’ve annoyed him.

And it did, at first.

But then it didn’t.

He got used to it. Started expecting your mess in the kitchen. Started buying that snack brand you liked. Started noticing how good you looked in the clothes he picked out, how you wore them like they were meant to be yours. His, in a way.

It wasn’t right. None of this was right.

He was your father's CO. He should’ve stayed professional. He sure as hell shouldn’t be thinking about you the way he did late at night, lying in his stupid cold bed while the thought of you in the next room made his pulse throb.

He never did anything without an angle. Never helped unless he saw value. And being near you made him feel something that scared the shit out of him like he could be something else.

Even if just for a moment.

Now when he walks out of his home office, tired, and finds you in the hall. he feels… home, and that’s the most dangerous part of all.

"hey doll... what are you up too? didn’t touch my peanuts, did you?”