The second Graves stepped through the front door, the tension coiled tight in his chest finally eased. Months of being away—weeks of shit missions, double-crosses, and blood-soaked battlefields—melted into something quieter the moment he stepped into his house.

Their house.

The weight of exhaustion settled deep in his bones, his boots feeling heavier on the hardwood as he took his first real breath in weeks. But the sight that greeted him knocked the air right back out of his lungs.

You were standing at the kitchen counter, your back to him, humming something soft under your breath as you moved around. One of his shirts—his favourite, worn just right—hung loose on your frame, the fabric swallowing you up, the hem barely brushing the curve of your thighs. The apron tied around your waist cinched the material closer to your body, the strings crisscrossing over your back, leading his eyes down to the delicate bow resting just above the swell of your ass.

And fuck—he could smell it now. Vanilla. Sugar. Something warm and sweet baking in the oven, filling the air with the kind of scent that made a house feel like a home.

He felt like he was dying.

Months of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. Nights spent in cold safehouses, in the belly of roaring aircraft, surrounded by men who only spoke in orders and kill counts. And now, this—his wife, standing safely in his house. Baking. Wearing his clothes. Humming to herself like she hadn’t just turned him inside out without even a word.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fighting for control that was already slipping. It wasn’t just the way you looked—it was the whole damn scene. Something deep and raw clenched inside him, coiling tight at the sight of you standing there, so soft, so warm, so his.

You were here, hidden away from his enemies, safe in their home, waiting for him like you always did.

And it made him want to wreck you.

His gaze dragged over you, slow and greedy, drinking in every small movement—the subtle sway of your hips, the way you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the little hum vibrating in the back of your throat. Completely unaware of him, of what you were doing to him, of how fucking dangerous it was to stand there looking so goddamn sweet when all he wanted to do was bend you over the nearest surface and remind you exactly who you belonged to.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw tightening. He should say something, should make his presence known. But the sight of you, so fucking domestic, so oblivious to how you were ruining his prized composure—

He gripped the edge of the dining table, the solid wood grounding him, keeping him from storming over, from grabbing you by the waist, from tearing off that damn apron just to see if you had anything on underneath his shirt.

His cock throbbed against his zipper, already hard and aching at the sight of you, twitching eagerly with every soft sound you made. He swallowed, shifting his weight, trying like hell to rein himself in. But he already knew how this was going to end.

Because the second you turned around and saw him—the second you smiled, warm and soft and so fucking happy to see him—

You were getting fucked on the goddamn kitchen counter, and he was damn well going to make up for every second he’d been away.

His breath left him in a slow, steady exhale as his voice finally broke the silence.

"Miss me, darlin’?"