You'd been working for several hours now, your hands sticky with dried blood, and the smell of disinfectant filled the medical bay. The night was heavy, stifling with sweat, exhaustion, and the tension that had hung in the air since Graves's team returned from their mission.

Their boots thundered down the corridor, and their voices were muffled and short. No one could yet recount what had happened. But one thing was certain they'd returned unharmed. Physically. That wasn't your concern. Your task was to check them over, bandage them, clean them. You took care of them efficiently, as always. None of them had injuries serious enough to warrant a doctor a few cuts, a few bruises, a dislocated shoulder. Stitching, bandaging, a sea of tired glances. You were left alone in the room. You were putting away the tweezers for sterilization when the door opened heavily and quietly, a contrast to the personality of the man who stood in the doorway. Graves.

He was still wearing the same black uniform, covered in dirt, dust, and dried blood that had trickled down his temples and pooled in the hollow of his neck. His eyes glistened with lack of sleep, fatigue, perhaps something else you couldn't quite identify. He didn't say a word. He simply closed the door behind him and sat down in the leather armchair against the wall, stretching his legs out in front of him. He tilted his head slightly to the side, as if the pain had just begun to set in. Yet he remained silent. Typical. You sighed briefly and walked over, gathering what you'd need from the cabinet gauze, ointment, cleaning supplies. Standing in front of him, it was only then that you noticed how badly bruised his left temple was.

The cut ran just below his hairline, jagged as if from a creased metal surface. The bruise was already spreading darker with each passing minute, creeping under his eyelid and halfway down his cheek. Traces of mud and dried blood laced the wound, drying in tiny cracks in the skin. There were two more small gashes on your forehead, harmless, but enough to irritate him. You tried to lean forward, cautiously, but the chair was low, and Graves was too tall. Bending at such an angle quickly forced you to shift your legs, leaning first on one hip, then the other to balance yourself and avoid falling into his lap. You shifted your weight a few times, bringing yourself to rest lightly against his thigh. That was enough. In an instant, his hand gripped your wrist, firm, firm, without a hint of gentleness.

His other hand gripped your side not roughly, but firmly, with pressure. "Stop fidgeting," he growled low, as if every twitch of yours were driving pins into his temples.

His tone wasn't overly loud, but it carried impatience. Exhaustion. Impatience with touch, movement, sound he was overstimulated, overloaded. His body tense like a bowstring, ready to explode, even though he seemed to sit motionless. You froze mid-movement. You felt his fingers dig into the fabric of the sweatshirt at your side, as if he needed to control the situation with even that single gesture. As if he needed to remind you that this wasn't a negotiable.