How would reader react if he came home in the Shadow Company uniform......... cause I know how EYE would react, that black uniform looks soooo good on him for no reason
Show of hands if you're a slut for men in military uniforms like me✋
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You are usually asleep by the time Phillip comes home.
That is the routine.
He texts when he can. Short little updates that never say much and still somehow keep you tethered to him.
Plane just landed.
Headed to the armory.
Gotta turn my shit in.
Leaving base soon.
Twenty minutes out, Sweetheart.
Nothing romantic. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to let you know he is alive, stateside, close.
Usually, you see those messages half-asleep. One eye cracked open in the dark, phone glowing against your pillow, your body already heavy with exhaustion. Usually, you manage a sleepy little reply, then wake hours later to the shower running or the bed dipping beneath his weight.
But this contract has been long.
Too long.
Long enough that you have gotten used to eating alone. Sleeping alone. Waking up and reaching for him before remembering he is not there. Long enough that by the time his first message comes through tonight, some stupid, clingy part of you has already decided you are not missing the moment he walks through the door.
So you stay up.
You eat dinner at the kitchen island with his plate covered beside yours. Then you move his food to the coffee table because maybe he will be hungry when he gets in. Then you pour a glass of wine you barely drink and put something on the TV you do not care about.
Every text makes it worse.
Not because it says anything interesting. Because it means he is closer.
By midnight, you are curled on the couch in one of his sweatshirts, blanket over your legs, eyes gritty, phone faceup beside you like you are not waiting for it to light up again.
When it does, your stomach flips before you even touch it.
Phillip: Close. Don’t get up.
You stare at the message. Then, naturally, get up.
Not all the way. You are not pacing. You refuse to call it pacing. You are just standing near the couch, arms folded, listening hard enough to hear the distant crunch of tires in the driveway.
The headlights sweep briefly across the front curtains.
Then cut out.
The front door opens. Not quietly. Not loudly either. Just heavy.
The lock turns, the hinges sigh, and then you hear his boots.
You sit up before he even comes around the corner.
Phillip steps into the living room looking like he has dragged himself there by force of will alone.
And every single thought in your head goes blank.
He is still in uniform.
Not the full gear. Not the vest, not the helmet, not the weapons. Those are gone, left at base or turned in where they belong. But the rest of it is still there.
The black Shadow Company uniform. The fitted tactical shirt pulled across his shoulders and chest. The dark cargo pants sitting low on his hips, heavy with straps and pockets and the kind of practical details that should not look good but absolutely do. The belt. The boots. The gloves tucked into one hand. The faint mark along his jaw where a strap must have pressed into his skin.
It is not unusual for Phillip to come home in uniform. Not really.
It is just unusual for you to see it on him.
Most of the time, he comes in so late you sleep through it. Two in the morning, three if the night has gone especially bad. You only wake halfway to a kiss on your temple, the sound of the shower running, the dull thud of boots being kicked off, the bathroom door cracked just enough for steam to curl into the bedroom.
By the time he slides into bed beside you, he is clean. Damp hair. Warm skin softened by intense scrubbing. One heavy arm finding your waist in the dark like he has been searching for you in his sleep.
The uniform is usually somewhere on the bathroom floor.
Crumpled. Abandoned. Half-stripped off a man too exhausted to care where anything lands.
A black shirt hanging over the edge of the hamper. Pants pooled near the tile. Socks kicked somewhere stupid. Evidence of Commander Graves left behind in the bathroom while Phillip comes to bed smelling like soap and heat and home.
By morning, it is all gone.
Not because Phillip is tidy. God knows he is not, not when he comes home like that. But because he does not like leaving proof of that world lying around where you can touch it.
So he drags himself out of bed, fueled by black coffee and stubbornness, and shoves the whole mess into the wash before you can be the one to pick it up. Before you can hold the fabric in your hands and wonder where it has been. Before you can smell smoke and sweat and something metallic beneath the detergent.
Before Commander Graves has the chance to stain the life Phillip is trying to keep clean.
And when you visit him at work, it is never like this either.
At the office, he wears suits. Or jeans and a button-down. Sleeves rolled up. Watch on his wrist. Coffee in hand. Rich, charming, polished Phillip, leaning against his desk like he owns the building because he does.
You know the uniform exists. You have just never really had to survive him in it.
His hair is mussed from the helmet, a fine layer of dust clinging to some of the strands. His eyes are tired. His face has that hard, drawn look he gets when part of him has not fully come home yet.
And somehow, offensively, he has never looked better.
You stare. You cannot help it.
It is actually embarrassing how fast your brain betrays you.
Because you know what the uniform means. You know enough about Shadow Company now that the sight of it should make your stomach twist for serious, complicated reasons.
Instead, your first thought is, Am I ovulating?
Your second thought is, I need to check my app.
Your third thought is just, Fuck.
Phillip stops in the entryway, one hand still braced on the doorframe like he needs a second before he moves again.
His eyes sweep the room first. Habit. Always habit.
Then they find you.
He blinks once, taking in the couch, the blanket, the TV, the untouched plate still sitting on the coffee table.
His face softens.
“You eat?”
Your mouth is dry.
“Eventually.”
His gaze drops to the plate again, then back to you. “Mad at me?”
“Of course.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Good.”
Your brows pull together. “Good?”
“Means you missed me.” His face breaks into a tired smile as he pushes off the doorframe, groaning at his stiff back as he steps closer.
You scoff, but it comes out weak because unfortunately, he is standing there looking like that.
Phillip notices. Of course he notices.
Even half-dead on his feet, exhausted and dirty and still carrying whatever long day has put that look in his eyes, he notices.
His head tilts slightly.
“You gonna fuss at me,” he asks, voice rough from misuse or fatigue or both, “or keep starin’?”
Heat rushes straight up your neck.
“I’m not staring.”
“No?”
“No.”
He looks down at himself like he has forgotten what he is wearing. Then he looks back at you, confused enough that it almost makes you laugh.
“What has gotten into you?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing look.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Babydoll.” His voice goes lower, and it should not work as well as it does. “I know when I’m bein’ looked at.”
You press your lips together.That is the problem. He does know.
Phillip Graves is fully aware of himself on an average day. In a suit, in a button-down, in those dark jeans that fit him like they were tailored by God personally. He knows exactly what his shoulders do to a shirt. He knows what that slow smile does to you.
But this is different. This looks unintentional. That is the unfair part.
He has not come home trying to be attractive. He has come home because he is exhausted. Because he got back to base, stripped off the heaviest pieces of gear, turned in what needed turning in, and apparently decided that showering there is one step too many between him and home.
Between him and you.
So now he is standing in your living room in the remaining pieces of his uniform, tired and rumpled and broad enough to make you briefly reconsider every feminist principle you have ever had.
His sleeves are dirty. The fabric is creased around his elbows. His belt sits low and heavy, making his waist look narrower and his thighs look unfair. The black uniform makes him look sharper. Meaner. Like the charming man who slow-dances with you in the kitchen has been wrapped in sin and handed back to you with a warning label.
And you, apparently, have no survival instincts.
Phillip drags one rough hand over his face.
“I stink,” he mutters. “Need a shower.”
“You do not stink.”
His eyes narrow. “Baby, these clothes have seen a lot of nasty shit, and I stink. That right there tells me somethin’ is wrong with you.”
You try not to smile.
Fail.
He looks at you for a long second, then glances down at his uniform again as if the answer might be written somewhere on his chest.
Then it hits him.
Slowly.
His expression changes.
Not much. Just enough.
The tired confusion gives way to something warmer. Amused. Dangerous around the edges.
“Oh, I see.”
“Do not.”
“Uh uh uh,” he scolds, putting his hands on his hips and looking down at himself. “No, I got it now.”
“Phillip.”
“You like it.” He lifts his eyes back to you, smile dragging slow across his mouth. “You like the uniform.”
“I never said that.”
“Didn’t have to.”
He sighs and crosses the rest of the living room, slower than usual, boots on the carpet be damned. Not because he is trying to be seductive. Because he is tired. Because every step looks heavy.
Somehow, the exhaustion makes it worse.
He is all hard edges softened by fatigue. Commander Graves with tired eyes, coming home to you because this is the only place he wants to collapse. Like he wants nothing more than to sink into you.
When he reaches the couch, you have to tilt your head back to look at him.
Bad idea.
Terrible idea.
Up close, he looks even better. There is a faint scrape near his jaw. His collar is open at the throat. The uniform clings where it should not. He smells like cold air, sweat, dust, and something sharp beneath the last traces of his own scent.
He is right.
He absolutely needs a shower.
Unfortunately, your body does not seem to care.
Phillip’s eyes move over your face, his hands on his thighs as he bends to look you in the eye, reading every shameful little detail.
His smile deepens.
“You are lookin’ at me like you forgot you were mad.”
“I’m still mad.”
“Mm-hmm,” he hums, long and teasing.
“I am.”
He straightens slightly, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside your shoulder. The heavy belt on his hips creaks softly with the movement.
Your eyes drop before you can stop them.
Phillip laughs under his breath.
“There it is.”
You snap your gaze back up. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I could.”
“Not tonight, apparently.”
You shove lightly at his chest, which is another mistake, because the fabric is warm under your palm and firm over all that muscle, and your brain immediately shorts out again.
Phillip looks down at your hand.
Then back at you.
His brows lift.
You pull your hand away like you touched a hot stove.
He grins, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
You cover your face. “Please stop talking.”
Phillip laughs, low and rough and pleased in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“God help me,” he murmurs. “I leave you alone for two damn weeks and come home to this.”
“Two whole weeks,” you groan, dropping your head back against the couch.
“I know,” he says, and the humor softens. “I know, Honey.”
His hand comes up, bare now, no glove between his skin and yours when he sees you pouting. Two fingers tuck gently beneath your chin, lifting your face.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m home, Darlin’.”
You swallow.
“I can see that.”
His thumb brushes your jaw.
“You missed me.”
It is not a question.
You should argue.
You are very good at arguing with Phillip Graves.
But he is standing there exhausted in black tactical gear, looking at you like the whole ugly world has spit him out and the first thing he wants to do is come home to you.
So you say, “Yes.”
His expression changes again.
Softer this time. Still smug, because he is Phillip, but softer underneath it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Missed you too.”
He presses one soft kiss to your lips and chuckles when you wrinkle your nose at how chapped his are. Then he straightens with a quiet groan, like his body has finally reminded him it is running on fumes.
“I’ve gotta shower,” he says, pointing at you as if scolding you. “Before you do somethin’ reckless.”
You look him up and down one more time.
A mistake. A choice. Both.
Phillip catches it and sighs.
“Sweetheart.”
“What?”
“I love you so damn much. But I am dirty, tired, and about fifteen minutes from fallin’ asleep standing up.” He counts on his fingers like this is a formal list of evidence. “This is not the version of me you need to be makin’ decisions about.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re sayin’ plenty.”
You smile despite yourself.
He shakes his head, but he is smiling too as he steps back toward the hallway.
Then he stops. Sighs. Looks over his shoulder.
Still in the black uniform. Still tired. Still unfair.
“You comin’?”
Your stomach flips.
“To where?”
His smile goes slow.
“I’m feelin’ generous. Thought you might wanna make sure I get out of this thing safely before I change my mind.”
You stare at him.
He has the audacity to look innocent as he shrugs.
Then he turns and walks down the hall, boots heavy against the floor, leaving you on the couch with your cold dinner, your hot face, and the deeply inconvenient realization that the Shadow Company uniform is now a problem.
You last maybe five seconds.
Phillip’s laugh reaches you before you even make it to the hallway.
Low. Rough. Knowing.
“Come on, then, Sweetheart.”
God help you.
