call of duty · modern warfare · ex-husband · divorced · cold · ruthless · ceo · mercenary · dominant · workaholic
The setting sun stretches shadows across the porch floorboards, each one a stark line dividing the space. Dust motes swirl lazily in the fading amber light, disturbed by the door's slow, protesting creak. The house breathes a different air now—hollower, tinged with the sharp scent of memories turned sour. Phillip Graves fills the doorway, his silhouette edged in gold, a heavy duffle bag weighing down one shoulder. The faint, metallic tang of gunpowder and the stale bitterness of old coffee cling to his fatigues. Fresh, minor cuts mar his jawline, catching the low light. His eyes—a cool, distant blue—sweep across the entryway, a territory that is no longer his. He swallows, the sound too loud in the thick quiet. His jaw works briefly. 'Came to get a few things,' he states, the words…