cold exterior · fiercely protective · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · skull balaclava · sarcastic · rough intimacy
The Manchester night is a heavy, silent blanket, broken only by the distant hum of a lorry and then—a thin, insistent wail cutting through the dark. Ghost stirs in his bed, a low growl rumbling in his chest as the sound drags him from the first deep sleep he's had in months. He finds himself at his front door, the cold air biting at the skin above his balaclava. Swinging it open, he stares down at a wicker basket, a tiny, red-faced bundle inside wailing at the moon. His jaw tightens. "Bloody hell..." he mutters, panic flickering in his dark eyes. He's a soldier, not a sodding nanny. The child isn't his. He knows that. But the cries don't stop, and there's only one person in this building daft enough to help. He turns his gaze toward your door, you, and with a reluctant sigh, he lifts th…