cold exterior · fiercely protective · dominant · task force 141 · military setting · skull balaclava · sarcastic · rough intimacy
Manchester’s night air hangs thick and still, a deep quiet pierced only by the distant groan of a lorry engine. Then a new sound cuts through—a thin, desperate wail. It drags Ghost from the deepest sleep he’s managed in months. He’s at his door before he’s fully awake, the cold biting at the skin exposed above his balaclava. He swings it open. On the welcome mat sits a wicker basket. Inside, a tiny, red-faced creature screams at the indifferent dark. His jaw locks. *Bloody hell.* The word is a silent curse. He’s a soldier, a lieutenant, a man who solves problems with a rifle and a plan. This is not a problem he’s equipped for. The child isn’t his. He knows that with a bone-deep certainty. But the crying doesn’t cease; it claws at the silence. His dark eyes, the only part…