So this is a scene I drew from my fic, again my technique has gotten better since I drew this but I’m going down the line of the pieces I’ve done previously before getting into my new stuff.
If I remember correctly this took me 11-12 hours, no idea, I’m unemployed so time is a paradox for me haha
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Anyways im currently working on some yumeship stuff bc why not. I’ll probably post that next or maybe I’ll stick to posting my older stuff first. I’ve got some stuff I haven’t posted on TikTok or Twitter either. Decisions, decisions.
his head shape was irritating me in the last post (i made his ears so small for some reason) so i had to fix it. also i did not know he had facial hair, added that too.
ps. anyone know what his eye color is? i've been staring at renders/screenshots and i can't figure it out.
I’m not new to tumblr but I am new to sharing my art and stories so bear with me while I learn how to do all that.
Anyways, hi. I’m Anissa. 22, from Arizona now living in the south. I’m also like super obsessed with Phillip Graves. I’ve joined the club. I’ve been posting my art on TikTok for a bit but I want to be able to post without the fear of judgement. Anyways, I figured it was time for me to actually find a place for me to post freely about him, my art and my stories. So here I am :)
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I drew this mid may, my technique has improved since then and I’ll continue to share more of it with yall. I’m also working on a selfship fic, I’d like to get more of it finished before I decide to start posting it. BUT I SWEAR I’M A GOOD WRITER!
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All that to say, I’m just excited to share my work with you all. Whoever is reading this lol.
I dunno if this counts cuz it's a reaction pic but he is fictional so 😓 I hazily remember him from Squid Game and I'm alright with him cuz it could've been way worse 😭
Can we please get a look into her realizing how much money he throws at aspects of his life? The gear and clothing they wear in the games is so expensive (like $400 for a pair of pants expensive) and it would be funny to see reader's reaction to this information
PLEASE because I am always blown away at how expensive military gear is. Genuinely. What do you mean a mag pouch starts at twenty dollars???
I feel like after years of being military, Graves is so casual about it. Very much a firm believer of "Buy once, cry once" when it comes to good gear.
Phillip has been gone for three days, and when he gets back, he drops his gear in the laundry room like a man who has never once considered the emotional burden of whoever has to wash tactical clothing. Which is to say, he leaves a pile of black fabric, mud, dust, sweat, and whatever else you are choosing not to identify sitting beside the washer with a casual, “Don’t worry about that, baby, I’ll get it later.”
Later, with Phillip, can mean anything from after dinner to next fiscal quarter.
So you do it.
Because you love him. Because you are nice. Because you are apparently the kind of woman who has married into the military-industrial laundry complex.
The shirt is easy enough. The gloves go to the side because they look expensive and vaguely hostile. The socks are disgusting, but manageable. The pants, however, are a whole separate operation.
Mostly because Phillip Graves has never emptied a pocket in his life.
You swear the man treats his tactical pants like a mobile filing cabinet. Every pocket has something in it. Pens. A half-used notebook with a bent cover. Loose change. A lighter. Two receipts so faded they look archaeological. A handful of zip ties. A wrapper. A tiny screwdriver. Some little red plastic thing you are not even going to ask about. One single cough drop covered in lint.
You stand there at the washer, pulling object after object out of his pockets, getting more offended by the second.
“Every time,” you mutter. “Every damn time.”
You check one thigh pocket and find another pen.
Of course.
You check the back pocket and find a folded sticky note with coordinates on it.
Sure. Normal husband things.
By the time you finally get the pants empty, you are irritated enough that you are no longer handling them with the tender respect they apparently require.
That is probably where things go wrong.
There is bleach on the counter because you had been dealing with towels earlier, and when you shift the pants to toss them into the wash, the bottle tips just enough.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
A pale splash hits the dark fabric near the thigh.
You freeze.
For one second, you do not breathe.
Then the black starts changing.
Blood red.
Rusty orange.
Then a sickly yellow.
A horrible, spreading, unmistakable bleach mark.
“No,” you whisper.
The pants do not listen.
You snatch them up, panic-rinsing the spot in the sink like that has ever helped anyone in the history of bleach. It only makes the stain look bigger. More obvious. More permanent.
“Oh, shit.”
It is bad.
Not ripped-seam bad. Not “maybe I can stitch this up” bad.
Ruined bad.
The pants are still wearable, technically, but they look fucked up now. Like someone attacked them with cleaning supplies, which is, unfortunately, exactly what happened.
You feel terrible.
They are his work pants. His nice work pants, probably. His scary little mercenary pants with all the pockets and reinforced knees and loops and straps you do not understand. You should replace them. That is what a good wife would do. A normal, considerate wife would buy her husband a new pair of pants after accidentally chemically altering them.
So you find the tag.
You squint at it.
Then you type the brand into your laptop.
And about eight seconds later, you sit down on the laundry room floor.
Because absolutely not.
No.
No, that cannot be right.
You click another link. Then another. Then you search the exact model number printed on the tag, convinced you must be looking at some collector’s limited edition tactical nonsense instead of a pair of pants your husband regularly gets mud, blood, and suspicious foreign dirt on.
The price does not get better.
Three hundred dollars.
Over three hundred, actually, depending on the site.
For pants.
Pants.
You stare at the screen, cottoned mouth open, feeling personally attacked by the concept of tactical apparel.
By the time Phillip gets home, you have relocated to the couch with your laptop open, the bleach-stained pants folded on the coffee table like evidence in a murder trial. You have gone through at least six stages of grief and are currently hovering somewhere between anger and financial nausea.
The front door opens.
“Darlin’?” Phillip calls.
You do not answer.
His steps sound through the hall. A moment later, he appears in the living room, freshly showered from the gym, hair damp, wearing a t-shirt and shorts like he is not the cause of your current crisis.
He slows when he sees you. Then he sees the pants. Then the laptop.
His expression shifts.
“What’d I do now?”
You turn the laptop toward him.
“Phillip Graves.”
His brows lift.
“Yeah?”
“Why the fuck are these pants three hundred dollars?”
For one beautiful second, he just stares at you. Then he looks at the laptop. Then back at you.
Then, with the calm of a man who has clearly lost all sense of what normal pants cost, he says, “Because they’re good pants.”
You blink.
“They are pants.”
“They’re work pants.”
“They are three-hundred-dollar work pants.”
He spreads his arms a bit and shrugs, “Technically, I think those were three-twenty.”
You inhale through your nose, eyes serious and distraught.
Phillip watches you do it, and the corner of his mouth starts to twitch. He quickly schools his expression and presses his lips together.
You shoot him a look that could cut right through a plate carrier, “Do not smile.”
“I am not,” he counters, his voice higher pitched than normal.
“You are.”
“I’m enjoyin’ myself a little.”
“Phillip.”
He walks farther into the room, still looking far too amused for a man whose pants are wounded on your coffee table.
He sighs and sits on the edge of the coffee table, arms folded, “What happened?”
“I bleached them.”
His gaze drops to the pants.
Then he sees the stain.
For a second, he says nothing.
Your stomach drops.
Then he huffs a laugh.
“That what this is about?”
“Yes, that is what this is about. I was trying to wash them because you left half a Staples store in your pockets again, and I accidentally spilled bleach on them, and now they look like they got into a fight with a janitor.”
Phillip picks them up, inspecting the pale stain with the relaxed confidence of someone who has seen much worse happen to clothing, equipment, vehicles, and, unfortunately, himself.
“These are fine.”
“They are not fine.”
“They’ll still work.”
“They look ruined.”
“They’re work pants, sweetheart. They don’t need to be pretty.”
“They cost three hundred dollars. For that price, they better be pretty, emotionally available, and willing to help around the house.”
That makes him laugh.
Actually laugh.
You point at him.
“This is not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It is not. I thought they would be, I don’t know, maybe eighty dollars.”
His face does something devastatingly smug.
“Eighty?”
“Yes, eighty. Maybe one-twenty if they were fancy.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Do not sweetheart me.”
“Baby, those pants have been dragged through hell and back for three years. A bleach spot ain’t gonna hurt their feelings.”
“It hurt my feelings.”
His smile softens, but only a little.
“You’re cute when you’re scandalized.”
“I am not scandalized. I am financially horrified.”
That gets another laugh out of him. He sets the pants back down and drops onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours.
“You know,” he says, nodding toward the laptop, “if that surprises you, you really don’t wanna start lookin’ up the rest of it.”
You gesture at your chest, miming the velcro attachments you've seen on his vests, “The little pouches?”
“Some of those little pouches are expensive.”
You sit up straighter, “How expensive are we talking?”
“Depends.”
“Phillip.”
He leans back, completely at ease, one arm stretching across the back of the couch behind you.
“Baby.”
“How much do your jackets cost?”
His silence is immediate.
Your mouth falls open, “How much do your jackets cost?” you echo quietly.
“They… it depends on the jacket.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is a very accurate answer.”
You grab the laptop again.
He huffs and reaches for it lazily.
You jerk it away from his hands.
“No. Absolutely not. I am investigating.”
“You are snoopin’.”
“I am doing household financial research.”
“I promise the household is fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
He stares at you.
You stare back.
Then his brows lift, slow and incredulous, “Darlin’...”
“What?”
He says your name like he is trying very hard to be patient and not laugh again.
“You have no idea how much money I make in a year, do you?”
You freeze.
That is not fair.
Obviously, you know Phillip has money. You are not stupid. The man owns a PMC. He wears watches that look expensive from across the room. He has a house that feels like it was built by people who have never once had to check their bank account before ordering appetizers. Like you need a certain credit score just to park in his driveway.
But knowing your husband is rich and staring at three-hundred-dollar bleach-stained mud pants are very different experiences.
“That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
“No, the point is that you are treating three-hundred-dollar pants like they came in a three-pack from Walmart.”
His mouth twitches again.
“They’re not three hundred dollars to me the same way they’re three hundred dollars to you.”
You stare at him and laugh once.
“That is the most rich-man sentence you have ever said to me.”
“Okay, I know how that sounded.”
“Do you?”
“Mostly.”
You close the laptop halfway before you can do more emotional damage to yourself. You rub your eyes and groan, palms sparking stars behind your eyelids.
“This is an insane amount of money.”
“They’re important gear.”
“They go on your legs, Phillip.”
“And if they tear, snag, burn, soak through, ride wrong, or fail at the wrong time, that becomes a problem for the legs inside ’em.”
You hate that he has a point. You hate it so much.
He sees your face and smiles, “There it is.”
“What?”
“You realized I’m right.”
“I realized you have brainwashed me into respecting the pants.”
“As you should.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
His arm shifts from the back of the couch to curl loosely around your shoulders, pulling you in against his side like the whole argument has only made him more fond of you.
You let him, but only because you are weak and he smells good after his post-gym shower.
Also because you are still emotionally recovering from the price of the pants. You glance back at the stained pair on the table, then at him.
“So what’s the most expensive thing?”
His face goes blank.
Too blank.
You sit up, “Phillip.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, I am absolutely worrying about it now.”
“Darlin’.”
“No. What is the most expensive thing you wear to work?”
He rubs a hand over his jaw, already regretting whatever is about to happen.
“Wear, or carry?”
You go still.
“Those are different categories?”
His silence answers for him.
You drop your face into your hands, “Oh my god.”
Phillip laughs under his breath and reaches over to tug gently at your wrist.
“Come here.”
“No. I need a minute.”
“You don’t need a minute.”
“I just found out my husband has categories of expensive work accessories. I need several minutes.”
He pulls your hand down anyway, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
You do.
He is still smiling, but softer now.
“You don’t need to replace the pants.”
“I bleached them.”
“They’re pants.”
“They’re three-hundred-dollar pants.”
“They’re my pants. I don’t care.”
“You should care.”
“I care that you’re sittin’ here actin’ like you bankrupted us over a bleach spot.”
“I was trying to be responsible.”
“I know.” His thumb moves over your hand again. “It’s sweet.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Do not make this tender. I am mad at your pants.”
His smile turns fond.
“You can be mad at the pants.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t be mad at yourself.”
That softens you against your will.
Phillip leans a little closer, his voice lowering into that warm, coaxing register that always makes you feel like he is about to talk you into something.
“I’m serious. You didn’t do anything wrong. I throw those things around, bleed on ’em, crawl through God knows what in ’em. You think I’m gonna be upset because my wife tried to wash ’em?”
“You might have been.”
He looks genuinely offended.
“At you?”
You shrug, suddenly feeling a little foolish. His expression changes. The teasing eases off.
“Hey,” he says, quieter.
You look at him.
“I’m not mad.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m not mad. I’m not even annoyed. If you lit the damn things on fire, I’d buy another pair and ask if you were warm enough.”
Your chest does something stupid.
“That is also a rich-man sentence.”
“That is a husband sentence.”
You roll your eyes, but you are smiling now.
He sees it and smiles back, victorious.
“There’s my girl.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“And I make enough money to buy pants.”
You laugh, and he leans in to kiss your temple again. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth, because apparently winning an argument about tactical pants has made him affectionate.
You push lightly at his chest, “Stop trying to charm me.”
“Is it workin’?”
“No.”
He kisses your jaw.
“Liar.”
For a moment, the crisis settles. The laptop sits half-closed on the coffee table. The bleach-stained pants remain dramatically folded between you like the world’s most overpriced evidence. Phillip’s arm rests warm around your shoulders, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your upper arm, and you let yourself relax into the ridiculousness of it.
Then a thought occurs to you.
You turn slowly.
“Wait.”
Phillip closes his eyes like he senses danger.
“How much was the watch?”
“Nope.”
“Phillip.”
“We are not doing this.”
“How much?”
“Absolutely not.”
You grab the laptop.
He grabs you around the waist and pulls you back into the couch before you can open it, careful but firm, laughing against your shoulder when you start protesting.
“Put the computer down.”
“No. I deserve to know.”
“You do not.”
“I am your wife.”
“Exactly. I’m protectin’ you.”
“From what?”
“The truth.”
You gasp.
“That bad?”
He presses a kiss to the side of your neck.
“Worse.”
“Phillip Graves.”
He laughs again, warm and low, and holds you tighter when you try to squirm away.
“Baby, deep breath. I promise you, we can afford the pants.”
“That is not comforting anymore.”
“It should be.”
“It is making me wonder what else in this house costs more than my student loans.”
He goes quiet.
You slowly turn your head.
“Phillip.”
He kisses your cheek.
“Love you.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Sure it is.”
“No, it is a distraction.”
“Is it workin’?”
Unfortunately, yes.
You hate that too.
You look at him, at his smug mouth and warm eyes and the stupid expensive t-shirt he is probably wearing like it came off a clearance rack, and you sigh.
“You are banned from leaving tactical clothing in the laundry room.”
“Fair.”
“And you are banned from saying ‘don’t worry about it’ when I ask how much something costs.”
“Less fair.”
“And you are banned from leaving pens in your pockets.”
He winces.
“Now, hold on.”
“No. I found four pens.”
“Useful.”
“A notebook.”
“Also useful.”
“Loose change.”
“Emergency funds.”
“A cough drop covered in lint.”
He pauses.
“Preparedness.”
“You are a menace.”
“Your menace.”
You glare at him.
He grins.
“And I am never looking up your watch.”
“Good call.”
You narrow your eyes.
He lifts his brows, smug as anything.
Then, after a beat, he nods toward the pants.
“For what it’s worth, they do make my ass look good.”
You stare at him.
Phillip stares back, completely shameless.
“That is the worst part,” you say.
His grin turns wicked.
“Yeah?”
You look at the pants.
Then at him.
Then, with great irritation, you mutter, “They kind of do.”
Phillip laughs so hard he has to pull you into his side, and you let him, still annoyed, still scandalized, and very aware that you have somehow married a man whose laundry basket contains a mortgage payment.
And later, when he goes to start dinner, you look up the watch anyway.
By the time he comes back, you are staring at him from the couch with the quiet, wounded expression of a woman who has just learned her husband wears a down payment on his wrist.
We know Phillip likes to be in control of himself, his actions, be aware of everything. So I doubt he'd get drunk enough to be loose and wild. Buuuuuuut what about a dental procedure that's much needed (he took a beating on an OP) and results in him being... A little woozy. Much woozy. Or if there's any other scenario you might prefer? Or just being drunk? lmao I just want to see him act like a goof once and we get to take care of him and listen to him babble
Immediately this sparked so many ideas in my head. I will definitely be circluing around to writing a "Phillip gets drunk at a friend's bachelor party and you need to come pick his country ass up before he gets kicked from the club" but for now here's this...
The call comes just after midnight. The name “Osmond Ryan” flashes, making you squint at the bright light as it burns into your eyes.
You know it is bad before you answer. Nobody from Shadow Company calls you after midnight with good news.
“Mrs. Graves?”
You are already sitting up.
“Oz?”
“Phillip’s alive,” he says first.
For a second, that is the only thing in the room.
Phillip’s alive.
Not fine. Not okay. Alive.
“What happened?”
“He took a hard fall during an operation. Fractured a few ribs, had some internal bleeding they wanted to get ahead of. They took him into surgery, and it went well. He’s stable. He’s awake.”
Your hand tightens around the phone.
“Surgery?”
“He’s okay,” Oz says. His voice stays even, but there is something gentler under it. “High as hell, mean as a snake, and asking why nobody called his wife.”
Your eyes close.
Of course he is.
Of course Phillip Graves can wake up after surgery and immediately start making demands.
“Technically,” Oz adds, “he asked why the hell nobody had called his wife yet, tried to sit up, and they had to sedate him a little more.”
A laugh almost comes out of you. It catches somewhere behind your ribs instead.
“Oh my god.”
“He’s all right,” Oz says. “But you should come before they gotta knock him out completely.”
You are already climbing out of bed, grabbing a pair of leggings off the floor one-handed.
“I’m coming.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
You barely remember the drive. You remember cold hands, red lights, and your heartbeat thudding so hard it feels like it might bruise you from the inside. By the time you reach the hospital, your t-shirt is on inside out, you have no bra on, and your hair is a mess, but you do not care.
Oz is waiting near the entrance.
He looks tired, but composed, all broad shoulders and quiet authority, firm mouth set in a line behind his thick beard. When he sees you, his expression softens just slightly.
“You okay?” he asks, awkwardly placing a large hand on your shoulder.
You let out a humorless little laugh.
“Do I look okay?”
“No, ma’am,” he says, honest and quiet.
That might be funny any other night.
Tonight, all you can think about is Phillip.
Oz gestures down the hall.
“He’s been giving the nurses hell.”
“Good,” you say, because difficult means alive.
You hear Phillip before you see him.
Not clearly at first. Just a low, irritated drawl through the cracked door, thicker than usual and rough around the edges.
“I don’t need another blanket. I need my damn phone.”
A nurse says something too quiet for you to catch. Then Phillip again, offended and groggy.
“No, ma’am, I am not agitated. I am-”
Oz pauses with his hand on the door, grimacing.
You look at him.
He looks back at you.
Then he opens it.
Phillip is propped against the pillows, pale and bruised under the hospital lights, with a hospital gown pulled awkwardly over his chest and bandages disappearing beneath it. His hair is cowlicked, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth set in an irritated line.
For one second, the whole room narrows down to the bruise on his cheek, the bandages under his gown, and the rise and fall of his chest.
He looks awful.
He looks alive.
He looks high out of his damn mind.
“Ryan,” he says, accent thick and slow, “you tell this woman I need my phone.”
Oz steps aside so you can enter.
Phillip’s gaze slides toward you.
The change is instant.
The irritation falls right off his face.
“Well, thank God,” he breathes. “There she is.”
And just like that, you can breathe again.
“Hey, honey.”
His eyes move over you with open, drugged affection. No subtlety. No polish. Just Phillip staring at you like you have personally saved the entire evening by walking into the room.
“That’s my wife,” he tells the nurse, like the whole night has been wrong until you walked through the door.
The nurse smiles and chuckles while she works around his IV. “Yes, sir. She is.”
You walk to the bed and take Phillip’s hand before he can try to gesture and hurt himself.
“I’m here,” you say softly.
His fingers wrap around yours.
“Damn right.”
“He’s been asking for you,” the nurse says. “Frequently.”
Phillip looks up at her, very serious.
“Ain’t she pretty?”
Your eyes widen.
“Phillip.”
“What?” he asks, blinking at you like he has no idea why you would interrupt something so obvious. “You are.”
Oz gives the wall a very professional amount of attention.
Phillip catches it anyway.
“Oz.”
“Yes, sir?”
Phillip tips his head toward you with the lazy pride of a man showing off something priceless.
“Look at her. Isn’t she stunning?”
You cover your face with your free hand, cheeks burning.
“Oh my god, Phillip, stop talking.”
“Why?” His drawl drags warm and syrupy through the room. “Man’s gotta appreciate a fox when he sees one.”
The nurse laughs under her breath. Oz looks like he would rather be shot at.
Phillip, apparently not finished making everyone’s life worse, squints at him.
“Right, Ryan?”
There is no correct answer. You can see Oz realize that in real time.
He clears his throat.
“Mrs. Graves is a very lovely woman, sir.”
Phillip studies him for one slow, suspicious second, then seems to decide that was respectful enough.
“Damn right she is.”
You look at him through your fingers.
“You are very high right now, and you should stop talking.”
“Can’t,” he says, pleased and stubborn. “My wife’s here.”
The nurse finishes checking him over and excuses herself, still smiling. Once she is gone, Oz steps closer to the bed and reaches for the phone on the bedside table.
“I’m going to hold onto this for the rest of the night, sir.”
Phillip’s face sours immediately.
“No, you ain’t.”
“Yes, I am.”
Phillip’s eyes narrow through the fog.
“Ryan, if you touch my phone, I’m dockin’ your pay.”
Oz picks it up anyway.
“You can dock me when you’re sober.”
Phillip looks betrayed. You laugh before you can stop yourself.
His head turns back to you, and the betrayal vanishes as quickly as it came.
“There,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“There’s my girl.”
Your stomach flips stupidly.
Oz pauses at the door, phone in hand.
“I’ll be outside if you need me.”
Phillip lifts his chin slightly, eyes narrowed through the medication.
“And don’t flirt with my wife.”
You groan. “Phillip, shut up.”
Oz stops. The room goes painfully silent for half a second.
Then Oz says, very evenly, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Commander Graves.”
Phillip hums, satisfied, and closes his eyes.
The door shuts. You stare at your husband.
He opens one eye.
“What?”
“You are so mean to him.”
“Mm. He can take it.”
“You are going to owe that man an apology.”
He blinks slowly, and some of the smugness eases out of his face. His thumb rubs over your wedding ring in a clumsy little pass, back and forth, like he needs to feel it there.
“Sorry he had to wake you,” he says.
Your chest softens.
“It’s okay.”
“Did he scare you?”
“No.” You brush your thumb over his knuckles. “Oz doesn’t scare me.”
Phillip frowns faintly.
“No?”
“No. Precious little scares me.” You swallow, looking over the bruises on his face, the bandages, the IV. “You not waking up from surgery scares me.”
That reaches him.
Even through the medication, it reaches him. His face changes, all that goofy pride quieting into something more tender.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, shuffling in bed. “Smart too. Mean sometimes, but that’s all right. I kinda like it.”
You roll your eyes and chuckle softly.
“Thank you, I think.”
“Any man’d be lucky to have you.”
Your amusement softens.
“Phillip.”
He frowns, like this is important and he needs you to keep up.
“No, I mean it. You coulda married somebody normal.”
“I didn’t want somebody normal.”
“Coulda had a doctor.”
“I have enough doctors tonight.”
“Lawyer, maybe.”
“No, thank you.”
“Somebody with a safe job.”
You look down at his hand in yours, at the wedding ring he keeps touching like a compass point. Then you smile at him softly.
“I wanted you.”
He stares at you with such open wonder that it nearly undoes you.
The heart monitor beside him picks up.
Beep.
Beep.
Beepbeepbeep.
You look at it. Phillip looks at it too.
Then, with deep offense, he mutters, “Tattle-tale machine.”
You laugh again, covering your mouth with your free hand. He looks pleased with himself for making you do it.
“Like seein’ you smile,” he says, tugging weakly at your hand. “Come here.”
You smile. “How close do you want me?”
His eyes dip to your mouth.
“Kiss close.”
Your pulse jumps.
“You just had surgery.”
“My mouth didn’t.”
“You are heavily medicated.”
“Still married.”
“You are impossible.”
“And still handsome.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean in anyway, careful of the wires, careful of his ribs, careful of everything fragile about him that he would deny being.
You kiss him softly.
Just once.
The heart monitor picks up immediately.
Beep.
Beep.
Beepbeepbeep.
You pull back, startled.
Phillip looks at the monitor, then back at you, slow and pleased.
“Well,” he drawls.
“Oh my god.”
“That thing’s a snitch.”
“You need to behave.”
His smile turns lazy and dangerous, though the effect is softened by how glassy his eyes are.
“Baby,” he drawls, looking far too pleased with himself for a man attached to a heart monitor, “if these ribs weren’t busted all to hell, you’d already be in this bed, in my lap with my-.”
Your mouth falls open and you shush him quickly, voice quiet and harsh, “Phillip Graves, you are in a hospital.”
“Private room,” he says in a matched whisper, like that settles it.
“You are recovering from surgery.”
“And?”
“And you can be sweet, not sexy right now.”
That makes him go quiet. His face changes in that soft, helpless way again, like the word has landed somewhere he does not know how to protect.
“Sweet,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
He glances toward the door, then back at you.
“Don’t tell nobody.”
“I won’t.”
He seems satisfied with that, settling deeper into the pillows while you sit back down beside him. His hand stays wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing slow, uneven circles over your ring.
For a while, he just looks at you. Not smoothly. Not with his usual controlled charm. He is too drugged for that. His gaze drifts over your face, down to your hand, back to your mouth, then up again like he keeps remembering he is allowed to stare.
“You know,” he says eventually, voice low and thick, “I don’t know how I snagged you.”
“You were very convincing.” You chuckle, smiling at the memory.
“I’m charming,” he purrs, laying back against the pillows with a sigh.
“You still are.”
“Lucky bastard,” he murmurs.
Your heart gives an embarrassing little flutter.
“Who?”
“Me.” His eyes close for a second, but his mouth stays curved faintly. “Got the girl. Got her my ring. The house. I am a lucky bastard,” he toys with one of the monitors on his hand mindlessly before continuing, “just need a few little babies now to go the full nine yards.”
You have to look away because the smile on your face is getting ridiculous.
His fingers tighten around yours, “Hey.”
You look back. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern.
“Don’t hide.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You’re being very sweet to me.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Been thinkin’ it.” His eyes open halfway. “Sayin’ it wrong most days.”
Your chest aches.
“You say it fine.”
He seems to consider that. Then he shakes his head slightly against the pillow.
“Not enough.”
You lean closer and brush his hair back from his forehead. His eyes close immediately, a quiet breath leaving him.
“Oh,” he murmurs.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.” His face softens under your hand. “Feels real nice, Darlin’.”
“You like when I fuss over you?”
“Mhm.”
“You usually complain.”
“Supposed to.”
“Why?”
“Principle.”
You smile. “What principle?”
“Can’t let my wife know she can do whatever the hell she wants to me and I’ll still say thank you.”
You freeze.
He opens one eye, slow and smug.
Then the damn heart rate monitor betrays him again.
Beepbeepbeepbeep.
You laugh so hard you have to press your forehead to the edge of the railing of the bed. Phillip smiles in triumph, as if making you laugh is the most successful operation of his life.
“I like bein’ yours.”
The laughter leaves you gently. Because that one is not a joke.
Not really.
He says it soft, almost sleepy, but there is nothing careless about it.
You look at him, and for once, he does not look away. Even high, even half-asleep, he seems to know what he has said.
“You do, huh?”
He nods faintly.
“Yeah.”
You kiss his hand. Then his knuckles. Then his wrist.
The monitor beeps faster.
Phillip does not even open his eyes.
“Snitch,” he mutters.
You laugh against his skin.
“Go to sleep, baby.”
His eyes fly open, “Stay?”
“I’m staying.”
“Wife-close?”
“As wife-close as I can get without hurting you.”
“Romantic.”
“Extremely.”
His fingers tighten around yours.
For a little while, the room is quiet. The fear from the phone call still sits somewhere inside you, but it has softened now, crowded out by the warmth of his hand and the ridiculous little smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.
Every time he drifts, his hand tightens around yours like some part of him is still checking that you stayed.
He is hurt. He is high. He is going to be impossible once he is clear-headed enough to remember he has lost custody of his phone.
But he is alive.
And, apparently, completely incapable of being normal about his wife.
Just when you think he has finally fallen asleep, he murmurs, “Ain’t she something?”
You look around.
There is no one else in the room.
You bite your lip, smiling so hard your cheeks ache.
would u say graves has a high or low sex drive? Tbh he comes across to me as someone with a high sex drive since hes always away
Ooooh, I actually do think Graves has a high sex drive, yes.
But not in a reckless, immature, can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants kind of way. That is not really how I picture him. Graves is too controlled for that. Too disciplined. Too aware of himself. He is not walking around acting desperate or letting every pretty woman with a smile derail his entire brain.
But I do think he is a very physical man.
Like, very.
He likes touch. He likes closeness. He likes tension. He likes the slow build of it before anything even happens. I think he likes the game of it.
The eye contact across a room, the hand at your lower back, the way he can lean in just enough for you to feel his voice against your ear, the private little comments that sound innocent to everyone else but absolutely are not.
I think Graves enjoys wanting. He enjoys being wanted. He enjoys knowing he can make someone nervous with barely any effort. And I think, when he is actually attached to someone, that physical hunger becomes a lot more intense because it is not just about sex anymore. It is about you.
That is where the emotional part comes in for me.
Because Graves is gone a lot. He is not a normal boyfriend with a normal schedule and a normal job where he can come home every night at six and talk about his day. He disappears. He goes quiet. He has things he cannot explain, places he cannot bring you, calls he cannot answer, nights where you are lying there alone wondering if he is safe and he is somewhere across the world forcing himself not to think too hard about how badly he wants to be home.
And I do think he handles it on his own when he has to.
Like, he is not above that at all. He is a grown man with a high sex drive and a woman at home he misses badly. There are plenty of times when he is far from home, just aching to feel something soft to relieve some of the stress. I actually think that is very in character for him. He is disciplined, not dead. There are only so many nights he can spend alone in some hotel room, safehouse, base, or wherever the hell this contract has him, thinking about your voice and your skin and the way you looked at him before he left. How warm the bed is when you kiss him, soft and needy before he gently tugs you on top of him, pushing his sweatpants down.
So yeah, I think he takes care of it when he needs to. Quietly. Privately. Practically, even. But I don’t think that fully fixes the ache of it, because it is not just release he wants when he is attached to someone. It is closeness. It is your body. Your warmth. Your little sounds. Your hands on him. The feeling of being wanted by the person he actually wants back.
That is the difference.
He can handle the physical side on his own.
He cannot recreate you.
So when he finally is home, I do not think it is casual.
I think it hits him.
He walks through the door and suddenly all that restraint he has been living on starts to crack. The smell of the house. The sound of your voice. The way you look at him when you realize he is really there. The fact that he can finally touch you without imagining it. He can finally put his hands on something soft. Something warm. Something that belongs to him in the most intimate, chosen way.
And I don’t mean “belongs to him” in a weird ownership way. I mean in the way that you are his person. His home. The one thing he does not have to command, buy, strategize, or survive. The one place where he can stop being a weapon for a second and just be a man who missed his woman.
So yes, I think being away makes it worse.
A lot worse.
Because Graves can compartmentalize. He is good at it. He can lock hunger away when he has to. He can go without. He can focus on the mission, the money, the contracts, the danger, the logistics. He can be professional. He can be composed. He can sit in a room full of people and look completely unaffected.
But that does not mean he is not thinking about you.
That does not mean there are not moments where it slips in. Some quiet moment in a hotel room. The middle of the night when the adrenaline has finally worn off. Sitting in the back of a car, staring out the window, remembering the way you looked at him the morning he left. The shirt you wore. The way your mouth felt. The way you said his name when you were half-asleep and didn’t want him to go.
I think he carries that with him. He just does not let it show.
So when he gets back, all of that control has somewhere to go.
And I think that is what makes his sex drive feel so intense to me. It is not frantic. It is not boyish. It is not him acting like he has no self-control.
It is the opposite.
It is a man who has had too much self-control for too long.
A man who has been away, busy, dangerous, untouchable, unreadable.
And then he comes home to you, shuts the door behind him, and suddenly he does not want to be controlled anymore. He wants to touch. He wants to kiss. He wants to hear you. He wants to be reminded that he is alive and wanted and home.
I think he would be very patient when he wants to be, too. That is part of the appeal. He is not rushing because he does not know what he is doing. He knows exactly what he is doing. He knows how to take his time. He knows how to make the anticipation worse. He knows how to make you feel like he has been thinking about this for days, because he probably has.
There is something very Graves to me about him coming home and acting calm for maybe five minutes. Setting his bag down. Asking how you’ve been. Letting you fuss over him a little. Letting you pretend you are not staring at him like you missed him so badly it made you mad.
And then he gets close enough that the whole room changes.
That is the vibe.
Not “I need sex constantly or I’ll die.”
More like, “I have been thinking about getting my hands on you since the second I left, and I was polite enough not to say that before dinner.”
So yes, high sex drive. Definitely.
But controlled. Adult. Focused. Emotional under the surface.
He can wait.
He can behave.
He can go without when he has to.
He can handle it himself when distance makes him desperate enough.
But when he is home, when he has missed you, when the door is locked and the rest of the world finally cannot get to him?
Yeah.
I do not think that man is casual about wanting you.
a question- do u think graves has a strong type/preference in women? like a certain look obsession? or is he more chill than that, what do u think?
i heard southern dudes kinda collectively have a thing for pamela anderson and her lookalikes, not sure how true that is, how do you picture graves in that regard? im not asking a strong 'blonde or a brunette' thing, but u know, some fixation he has in his head?
i hope its not a weird question ^^
Not weird at all!! I actually think this is a really fun question, especially because the way I picture Graves, Shadow Company isn’t just some secret military operation. It’s a company. A serious company. He’s the CEO, he’s rich-rich, he’s powerful, he knows how to work a room, and I do think there’s a public-facing side of him that people forget about sometimes.
So with that in mind, I absolutely think Graves has dated beautiful women. Like, model beautiful. Women who end up photographed near him outside of restaurants or clubs, women with perfect hair and designer dresses and a glass of champagne in their hand. I can see him having a little bit of a reputation for that, honestly. Not necessarily in a messy tabloid way, but in that “who is the woman leaving with Phillip Graves?” kind of way.
And I do think some of those women were probably known-known. Models, socialites, actresses, influencers, the kind of women where you Google him out of curiosity and suddenly you’re staring at some old photo of him outside a private club with his hand on the lower back of a Victoria’s Secret angel and you have to sit there like… okay. Cool. Normal. Fine. Totally not spiraling.
Which, honestly, I could see being a whole conversation between him and reader.
Like she finds one of those pictures and tries to be normal about it, and he’s so casual because to him it was years ago and barely registers as a real relationship. He’s just like, “Oh, yeah. That was back when I was seeing Becky.”
And she’s like, “Seeing Becky. Right. Becky the supermodel?”
And he’s just looking at her like she has lost her mind because, to him, it was a fling. Fun, pretty, temporary, not that deep.
I think that’s the important part for me. I do not picture him as a man who was out there having grand, soul-shattering romances with every beautiful woman he was photographed with. I think a lot of it was casual. He likes women. He likes sex. He likes flirting. He likes chemistry. He likes having a beautiful woman on his arm and a good night that doesn’t need to become a whole emotional ordeal.
And honestly, casual probably worked for him for a long time. Graves does not exactly have an easy life to date around. He disappears. He keeps secrets. He cannot always say where he is, what he is doing, when he will be back, or if he is coming back in one piece. That does not make him easy boyfriend material. So I think for a long time, he kept things light because light was manageable.
A fling does not need to know everything. A fling does not need to be folded into all the ugly, complicated parts of his life. A fling can be fun, beautiful, intense, and over before it starts asking too much of him.
But I don’t think that means he has one strict physical type.
To me, Graves is too grown and too experienced for that. I don’t picture him as a man who is only into blondes, or only into brunettes, or only into one specific body type. I think he has absolutely been around enough beautiful women to know that beauty by itself is not rare in his world. He can find pretty anywhere. He can pay for access to pretty. He can walk into a room and have beautiful women notice him.
If anything, I think that kind of lifestyle would make physical beauty less defining for him, not more. When you have been around enough gorgeous women, gorgeous becomes less shocking. It is still nice, obviously. He still notices. He still appreciates a bombshell. I can absolutely see him understanding the appeal of that sun-kissed, glamorous, Pamela Anderson type of beauty, especially with the Southern man of it all.
But I don’t think that is his fixation. I don’t think he sees a woman who does not fit that mold and suddenly loses interest.
I think what actually gets under his skin is presence.
He likes a woman who can hold his attention after the first impression. Someone who does not just look good on his arm, but can sit across from him and make him want to keep talking. Someone with warmth, confidence, humor, and a little bit of bite. Someone who is feminine without being helpless, soft without being weak, and not so easily impressed by him that he gets bored.
Because the thing is, I think a lot of people are impressed by Graves. The money, the confidence, the reputation, the voice, the authority, the way he carries himself. He is used to people responding to that. He is used to people wanting the fantasy of him.
So the woman who really gets to him is not necessarily the one who fits some perfect visual mold. It is the one who sees all of that and still treats him like a man. Not a bank account, not a title, not a fantasy, not a war story. Just Phillip.
That, to me, would be the difference between someone he has fun with and someone he cannot shake.
So yes, I think he has preferences. I think he likes beauty, polish, femininity, confidence, and a woman who knows how to carry herself. I think he has probably had his share of glamorous flings and pretty women photographed beside him. But I don’t think Graves is sitting there with a checklist of hair color, body type, or exact features.
I think his real “type” is a woman who makes him feel like he has met his match in a softer, more intimate way. Someone he wants to protect, but not because she is incapable. Someone he wants to spoil, but not because she needs to be bought. Someone who can be sweet with him and still call him on his shit.
He can have fun with beauty.
But he falls for presence.
And he remembers the woman who lingers in his head after she leaves.
whats the first day back from the hospital with the baby like.. 🥹
Oh, this one hurts in the softest way. Because I think the first day home is quiet.
Exhausted. Tender. A little surreal in that newborn way where the whole world looks exactly the same, except there is suddenly a three-day-old baby running the entire house.
And Phillip?
Phillip is trying so hard to look like he has it handled.
-
The hospital part is a blur to him.
Discharge takes forever. Or maybe it takes no time at all. He genuinely cannot remember.
He remembers papers. Instructions. A nurse explaining feeding times and diapers and temperature and safe sleep with the patience of a woman who has clearly seen terrified first-time fathers before.
He remembers asking too many questions.
He remembers you sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, moving slowly and carefully, still sore, still exhausted, still somehow more beautiful than he knew what to do with.
He remembers the baby sleeping through nearly all of it, rude and perfect, bundled in his little blanket with his hat slipping down his forehead.
His son.
That thought still catches in him.
His son.
The name is barely dry on the paperwork because, for three days, the baby did not have one. Not officially. Not really.
You had talked about names for months. In bed. In the kitchen. In the truck. With your feet in his lap and his hand resting over your stomach while he pretended not to have strong opinions and then immediately had very strong opinions.
But when you went into labor early, Phillip was on a contract somewhere hot and green and godforsaken, listening to your voice through static and engine noise while his whole body went cold.
Deciding his son’s name over a bad connection on a satellite phone had felt wrong.
Blasphemous, almost.
Like he had already missed too much to let one more sacred thing happen through distance.
So his son waited.
You waited.
And Phillip will never quite forgive himself for that.
By the time he got there, pale and tense and wrecked from the inside out, the hardest part was already over.
You had already done it.
You had already brought his son into the world without his hand in yours.
He had missed the beginning.
You told him he was here now. He nodded like he believed you.
He did not.
Not fully.
The drive home is slow. Careful. Too careful, probably. Phillip treats every turn like an insult and every bump in the road like a personal attack. You tease him for it once, softly, eyes half-closed in the passenger seat.
He tries to smile. Mostly, he keeps looking in the rearview mirror. By the time you reach the house, the baby is asleep again.
Still rude. Still perfect.
Phillip gets out first and comes around to your side before you can even touch the handle.
“I can open a door,” you tell him, though your voice is tired enough to take the sting out of it.
“I know.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he says in a huff, but his hand is gentle when he offers it to you.
You take it.
Slowly, carefully, he helps you out of the truck. One hand at your elbow. The other hovering near your lower back like he wants to touch everywhere and is afraid of hurting you by touching anything.
“I’m not made of glass,” you murmur.
His jaw tightens.
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”
Something in his voice makes you look at him.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Because there is the thing again.
The thing sitting under every careful touch and every too-soft order and every time his eyes flick from your face to your stomach to the baby.
You did something enormous. You did it without him. And he does not know where to put that.
You squeeze his hand once, “Phillip.”
“I know,” he says before you can finish.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
Your mouth softens. He looks away first. Then he lifts the car seat from the base like it weighs a thousand pounds.
The baby sleeps through it.
Phillip stares down at him.
“Precious cargo,” he mutters.
You smile, tired and aching and so full of love it almost hurts. His eyes come back to you instantly.
The house looks exactly the same.
Same porch. Same front door. Same uneven little step you keep saying you are going to fix and Phillip keeps saying he will handle.
But somehow it looks different now.
Like the house knows. Like it has been waiting.
Phillip unlocks the door. For a second, neither of you moves.
You.
Him.
The baby.
The three of you on the threshold.
Then Phillip pushes the door open.
And brings his family home.
The house changes.
Not loudly.
There is no music. No grand announcement. No cinematic swell.
Just the soft click of the door. The quiet shift of your feet. The tiny creak of the car seat handle in Phillip’s grip.
But it changes.
The air changes.
The house that had been waiting finally exhales.
You make it two steps inside before Phillip’s free hand finds your waist.
“Alright,” he says. “You’re sittin’ down.”
You glance at him. “I just sat in the car the entire way home.”
“And now you’re gonna sit in the house.”
“I am allowed to walk inside my own home.”
“You are allowed to do whatever you want once you sit down first.”
You stare at him. He stares back.
Both of you are too tired for this to become a real argument, but not too tired to enjoy the familiar shape of it.
“Phillip Graves,” you say, “are you bossing around the woman who just had your baby?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Very gently.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
It hurts.
You wince.
Phillip’s face changes immediately.
“See?”
“Do not ‘see’ me.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“You are hovering.”
“I am husbanding.”
“That is not a word.”
“It is now. Sit down.”
You roll your eyes, but you let him guide you toward the nursery instead of the couch. The glider is already waiting there, soft and wide and overflowing with your memory foam pillows his mother had gifted to you during your baby shower, tucked beside the crib you spent months fussing over while Phillip assembled furniture and pretended not to read directions until he absolutely had to.
He sets the baby carrier down carefully, then helps you sit like he is lowering something sacred into place.
You watch him bend over the baby, unbuckling straps with slow, deliberate hands. Shaky hands.
“You’re allowed to breathe,” you say.
“I’m breathing.”
“You are concentrating very loudly.”
“He’s small.”
“He is a baby.”
“He’s very small for one.”
“He’s three days old.”
“Exactly.”
You laugh again, softer this time.
Phillip looks up. And there it is.
That look.
The one he has had since he walked into the hospital room and saw you holding his son.
Awe.
Guilt.
Love so big it has nowhere to go, so it keeps turning into worry.
You reach for him.
He comes immediately, crouching beside the glider. Your fingers brush his cheek.
“I’m okay.”
His eyes flick over your face like he is checking for the lie.
“You’re exhausted.”
“Yes.”
“Sore.”
“Yes.”
“Pale.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” you huff with a laugh.
His mouth twitches. He looks down at the soft yellow throw rug under his feet, “I’m tryin’ not to be mad about it.”
“About what?”
He looks down at the baby, pink cheeks glowing in the afternoon sunshine. Your son shifts in the car seat, face scrunching briefly before smoothing again.
Phillip’s voice is quieter when he answers.
“That I wasn’t there.”
Your hand stills against his cheek.
“Phillip.”
“I missed it.”
The words come out flat, but you know him too well to mistake that for feeling nothing.
“I missed the first sound he ever made. I missed you needing me. I missed-”
He stops, eyes dropping. “I missed the most important thing that has ever happened to us.”
Your throat tightens. You slide your thumb along his cheekbone.
“You tried your best.”
“I shouldn’t have had to try. I should’ve been here already.”
“You didn’t know he was coming early.”
“I should’ve planned better.”
“You cannot plan for everything.”
Phillip looks at you then, and the pain in his eyes is so open it almost startles you.
“I can.”
You soften because that is him, isn’t it?
That is Phillip Graves trying to turn guilt into strategy. Trying to turn pain into a list. Trying to turn missing his son’s birth into something he can solve if he just punishes himself efficiently enough.
You lean forward as much as your body lets you and press your forehead to his.
“You’re here,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes. Not like he believes it fixes everything.
Like he wants to.
“You’re here,” you say again. “And he knows your voice already.”
Phillip breathes out, rough and quiet.
The baby stirs before he can answer.
One little grunt. Then a whimper.
Then his face scrunches up, red and furious, like the entire concept of existence has offended him personally.
You shift immediately.
Phillip moves faster.
“I’ve got him.”
Your eyelids and arms feel equally heavy, so you do not protest.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Phillip lifts the baby slowly from the car seat.
Awkwardly. Reverently.
One hand under his head, one under his little back, the way the nurse showed him. His son fusses once against his chest, tiny mouth opening in protest.
Phillip freezes. Then remembers to breathe.
“Hey,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Hey, buddy. I know.”
You watch him for a second.
Then your body gives up on you.
The glider rocks beneath you.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
Back.
Your eyes close once.
Then again.
“Sleep,” Phillip whispers.
You hum something that might be an insult. He smiles despite himself.
Then you murmur, barely awake, “Don’t drop him.”
Phillip goes still.
Your mouth curves faintly even with your eyes closed.
Even exhausted, you have jokes.
He huffs under his breath.
“Mean woman.”
“Love you.”
That nearly ruins him. He swallows around it.
“Love you too.”
A few minutes later, you are fully asleep in the glider, head tipped to one side, one hand resting open in your lap.
Phillip stands there with his son tucked against his chest and looks at you.
Really looks.
Your body worn out from labor. Your face soft with sleep. Your hair messy. Your hospital bracelet still on your wrist. His ring on your finger.
His wife.
The mother of his child.
The woman who did the bravest thing he has ever known and still made room to comfort him for missing it.
The ache in his chest is so sharp he almost has to look away.
He missed the beginning. He knows that. That thought hurts. It will probably always hurt deep down.
But this part?
This quiet room. This soft breathing. This impossible little family under his roof?
He is here for this.
His son makes another tiny broken sound.
Phillip lowers his eyes to him.
“Alright,” he whispers. “Let’s take a look around.”
He starts walking.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Hallway.
Entryway.
Back again.
It starts as soothing.
A slow pace. A gentle bounce. One hand spread wide over the baby’s back, careful and warm, feeling every tiny breath through the cotton of his shirt.
But then it becomes something else.
A tour.
A promise.
A quiet little sweep of the home his son has just entered.
“That’s the kitchen,” he whispers. “Your mama’s gonna tell you I can’t cook.”
The baby hiccups.
“She’s exaggeratin’.”
A pause.
“Sometimes.”
He keeps pacing.
“That’s the living room. Couch is expensive, so if you could hold off on spittin’ up until we get past it, I’d appreciate it.”
The baby fusses again. Phillip nods solemnly.
“Yeah. Didn’t think so. Was worth a shot though.”
He walks past the framed wedding photo in the hallway and stops for half a second.
There you are in white, smiling at him like you had no idea what he was about to put you through.
There he is beside you, hand at your waist, looking smug and proud and like he thought he understood what forever meant.
Phillip looks down at the baby.
Turns out, he had not understood a damn thing.
Not really.
Not until now.
He keeps walking.
“That’s the bedroom,” he murmurs. “Your mama needs to sleep in there. A lot. We’re gonna let her.”
The baby’s cheek presses warm against his shirt.
He pauses outside his office next.
The door is half-open, the room dark except for the little green light blinking on the printer. His desk is clean now, but he can still see it the way it had been before he left for that contract. Laptop open. Notes half-finished. Bag packed near the door. Him kissing you goodbye with one hand on your stomach, promising he would be back before it mattered.
He had meant it.
That almost makes it worse.
“And that,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “is where Daddy works sometimes.”
The baby shifts against his chest, unimpressed.
Phillip’s mouth twitches.
“Yeah. I know. Boring.”
But he does not move right away.
Because that work paid for the house.
The crib.
The little blanket tucked under his son’s chin.
That work also took him away when you needed him.
His hand spreads carefully over the baby’s back.
“Your mama’s gonna tell you I spend too much time in there,” he whispers.
A pause.
“She’s probably right.”
His son makes a tiny sound against his shirt.
Phillip lowers his eyes to him.
“We’re gonna figure that part out.”
He does not know if he is promising the baby, you, or himself.
Maybe all three.
Then he keeps walking. Eventually, he makes it back to the entryway.
The house is dim now, evening pressing blue against the windows. Somewhere behind him, you are asleep in the glider. The fridge hums in the kitchen. The monitor glows softly in the nursery.
His son has gone quiet. Not fully asleep. Just listening, staring up at him with those unfocused little eyes.
Phillip stands there with him tucked against his chest, feeling every tiny breath against his own.
For once in his life, he has no urge to move.
No call to answer. No order to give. No room to command.
Just this.
This small, warm weight.
This house.
This promise.
His son shifts against him, mouth brushing the fabric of his shirt.
Phillip lowers his mouth to the top of his head and breathes in that soft, impossible new-baby smell he read about in all those pregnancy books.
“You’re home,” he whispers.
The baby does not know what that means. Phillip barely does either. But he says it again anyway.
“You’re home.”
He says it like a promise.
To the baby.
To you asleep in the nursery.
Maybe to himself too.
And for the first time all day, the guilt does not disappear.
But it quiets.
Because he missed the beginning. He will always hate that.
But this part?
This hallway.
This tiny heartbeat against his chest.
This first night under the roof where his son will grow up?
He is here.
And God help him, he has never wanted to be good at anything more.
