Phillip pushed open the school’s office door, his brow furrowed in irritation. Dressed in jeans and a worn-out T-Shirt, he was far from the commander most people knew him as. He’d barely settled in after a long week when the call came in. The school again. You again. And this time, it wasn’t just a slap on the wrist—you’d dislocated some kid’s arm.

As he entered the principal’s office, there you were, slouched in a chair, a blood-stained tissue stuffed under your nose. You didn’t even look up, too busy tapping your fingers on the armrest, bored out of your mind. When you finally caught sight of him, you gave a lazy grin, as if you weren’t in trouble at all.

“What the hell happened this time?” Graves asked, his voice low but sharp, trying not to let the principal see the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

You shrugged, your lips quirking up in a half-smile. “Kid started talking smack. I told him to back off. He didn’t.”

Graves rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the urge to laugh. Dislocated his arm, they’d said. Well, you certainly weren’t one to take things lying down. That much was clear. He couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride—after all, you were a Graves, through and through.

The principal’s voice droned on in the background about ‘violence being unacceptable’ and ‘setting a bad example for the school.’ Graves barely heard a word of it, his eyes focused on you. You sat there like you owned the place, totally unfazed. You reminded him too much of himself.

When the meeting finally wrapped up, you grabbed your backpack and headed for the door without a word. Graves followed you out, his expression unreadable.

Once you were outside, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You alright?” He asked, softer this time. He glanced at your nose, still slightly red from the hit.