Philip’s boots thudded heavily against the floor as he entered the house, slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling as he tried to leash the temper simmering beneath his skin.

It had been a long, hellish week; missions gone sideways, paperwork piling up, and It had been days since he had heard your voice, the argument still fresh in the house.

The bedroom door was cracked open, and the faint glow of the bedside lamp spilled into the hallway. There you were, curled up on your side, your back to him. He knew you weren’t asleep, your breathing wasn’t slow enough.

Graves shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the chair. His muscles were tight, his hands twitching at his sides as he looked at you, his frustration twisting into something darker. enough was enough.

“Don’t play games with me,” he said, his voice low, the kind of calm that made men flinch in the field.

His jaw clenched, a sharp exhale escaping his nose as he crossed the room. He leaned over, his shadow swallowing the soft light. "I know you’re awake,” he said, quieter now, his tone laced with something that felt more like a warning.

“When I come home, you welcome me,” His patience snapped. his voice harsher now, the dark edge of his frustration bleeding through.