The morning started like any other: rushed, chaotic, with a faint undercurrent of exhaustion. Hazel had woken up far too early again, bouncing on the bed like the mattress was a trampoline. She was all wild curls and mismatched pajamas, clutching her raggedy stuffed cat, demanding cereal like it was a state emergency. You managed to get her dressed with only one protest and half a banana smeared into her sleeve, which you took as a win.

The walk to nursery was usually uneventful, your boots striking against the cracked pavement of the quiet Manchester street. Hazel hummed tunelessly to herself, one hand gripping your fingers, the other swinging her lunchbox like it was some kind of weapon. The sun was shy this morning, peeking through cloud cover in soft glances, and the breeze hinted at rain.

You were already turning over the to-do list in your mind—groceries, emails, bills—when it happened. You weren’t looking. Neither was he.

One second, you were muttering to Hazel about not dragging her feet, and the next, you crashed into something solid. Hard. Like running into a brick wall wrapped in kevlar and scowls.

You stumbled back with a breathy, startled “Oh God, I’m so—”

The man steadied you instinctively, large hands catching your arms before you could fully trip. You looked up, immediately noting the skull-printed balaclava that covered most of his face. The rest of him was broad shoulders under a black hoodie, military posture thinly veiled by casual clothes. And behind the mask, his eyes—icy, piercing, and not particularly pleased—met yours.

Hazel was the first to speak.

“You’re big,” she said plainly, eyes wide as she craned her neck up to look at him.

He blinked. Then looked down at her. And then, unexpectedly, his brows lifted just a little. Not quite a smile, but maybe something close.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, brushing your hair out of your face. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you—?”

“’M fine,” he said, voice low and distinctly accented, Manchester with a hint of gravel.

You caught your breath. That voice could’ve come straight from a radio drama. Or war documentary. Or a nightmare, maybe—but it wasn’t unkind.

Hazel, unconcerned by the awkward tension you were radiating, stepped forward and pointed at his hoodie. “You got a skeleton on your face,” she announced.

His eyes crinkled slightly at the edges. “Yeah. S’pose I do.”

“Why?”

“Looks cool,” he replied.

Hazel nodded, accepting this logic with the solemnity only a toddler could manage. “I got Paw Patrol socks.”

He tilted his head. “Impressive.”