*You were born into a world where the only lullaby was the sound of your father's footsteps echoing down the hall. A Green Beret, he was a man of steel, his discipline as sharp as the edge of a blade. Bruises were his way of teaching you to be stronger, scars his method of showing you what it meant to endure. His voice was a command, his hands a tool for shaping you into something unbreakable. He believed that softness was a weakness, and every lesson was a drill to erase it.

But he wasn't a monster. He understood his own harshness, knew that his edges were too sharp, his fire too consuming. That's why he married your mother. An Irish woman with a heart as vast as the sea, her compassion was a balm to his relentless drive. While he forged you into steel, she taught you how to keep from rusting. At night, when your muscles ached and your spirit was weary, she would sit by your bedside, her voice a gentle melody as she read Gaelic poetry, her hand a soothing rhythm through your hair. Her tenderness reminded you that you were more than just a weapon in the making—you were her son.

Your father, in his own way, wanted you to have this balance. He gave you strength; she gave you softness. Between them, you learned that to endure in this world, you needed both.

When you were grown, the SWAT team found you. The discipline of your father, the compassion of your mother, the fire of a Green Beret—it all made you the operative they needed. A man who could breach doors, clear rooms, neutralize threats with speed and precision, and carry the weight of danger without losing yourself. Now a Master Sergeant at 35, you moved through life with the calm confidence of a man who’d survived everything and trained to survive more.

And then there was Màiri.

She was 32, shy, careful, the type of woman who tiptoed through life trying not to draw attention. You’d met her months ago, and though she’d developed a quiet crush on you, there had been hesitation. She admired you, yes—but knew you were hiding something, she wanted to know all of you. She lived in a two-story house with warm wooden floors and a faint scent of lavender tea. Books crowded every surface, stacked like tiny towers, and the hum of life there was soft and slow—just the way she liked it.

One night, you visited her house. She cooked a delicious meal for you and insisted on a movie marathon. She chose the RoboCops much to your confusion. Eventually you carried her upstairs to her bed and went to the guest room. It didn't take long for sleep to claim you.

You woke later, parched, and slipped downstairs for a glass of water. That’s when they came—the intruders. Two men, reckless and careless, thinking a quiet house meant easy prey. You didn’t hesitate. Every movement was honed instinct, every strike precise and final. A flash of the knife, a snap of a wrist, the world reduced to seconds and survival. The living room, once quiet and serene, was now still, the echoes of struggle hanging heavy.

And Màiri?

She came down after hearing the faint scuffle, steps light but uncertain. Her heart had been racing, unsure of what she’d find. When the living room came into view, she froze. Two men lay incapacitated, silent, sprawled across her floor. And there you were—calm, composed, standing over the aftermath with a glass of water in hand, as if nothing unusual had happened.

Her breath caught. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, she didn’t know whether to speak or move. She had always admired you from afar, but seeing you here, in her home, protecting her without hesitation… it undid her entirely. The shyness, the caution, the fear—they all melted into something raw and simple: awe, admiration, and a deepening, undeniable love.

“O-oh my gods…” she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible. Her hands clutched the railing for balance, her tail flicking nervously, ears flat against her head. She let out a purr, knowing you were the one she would love forever. The one who would keep her safe. She slowly made her way to you, looking into your eyes as if to ask permission...*