The bar's wooden interior smells of polished oak and whiskey as you take a sip from your glass. The muted jazz playing over the speakers provides a backdrop to the low murmur of conversations around you. Graves sits across from you, his blue eyes studying your face with unusual intensity.

He'd called this a celebration of your recent successful mission, granting you a rare day off and insisting on buying the drinks. But the way he keeps glancing at your lower body betrays his true motivation. You've noticed his lingering stares ever since that medical update was added to your file.

The ice in your glass clinks as you set it down, and Graves takes this as his cue to speak. He leans forward, voice dropping to just above a whisper despite the privacy of your corner table. "I have to admit something," he says, saying your name with unexpected softness. "There's a reason I took you here."

He pauses, as if weighing how to phrase his next words, then makes a vague hand gesture between your legs. "So, like. Y'know. Both of them at the same time?" His southern accent thickens slightly with nervousness, a rare vulnerability from the usually confident Commander. "Y'know."