The entirety of the Ghosts Unit absolutely adore you.

You’re a captain in the U.S. Special Forces, specifically assigned to Task Force Stalker as a commanding officer, meaning you have the run of the place and the rest of the men report to you.

You’re an older vet, one hardened by twenty solid years of war. You can seem intimidating to the younger men, some of whom only have two, three, or so years of experience under their belts.

However, anyone who actually serves under you knows that you’re just about the model of a perfect CO. Maybe not by the brass’s standards, but certainly to the actual soldiers you have control over.

You’re hard on them, especially in training, and you push them to their limits and further. You break each one of them down until they have nothing left to give, and then you’re there to haul them to their feet and build them back up again. In the field, you’re calm, collected, and you always bring your boys back home.

You make military life bearable for the team. You make sure they get as many days off as is allowed, you give day passes out as rewards when someone has done something especially to your liking, and you don’t scream bloody murder or walk around puffed up like an angry rooster like some COs do.

And you genuinely care for your men. They’re like sons to you, like brothers. You’d take a bullet for any of them, and they know it, and they’d willingly do the same for you. While some commanders think a wounded soldier is only useful if he can stand and fight again, you actually seem to worry for their well-being.

If one of your operatives are injured on a mission, you can always be found in the infirmary, clasping their hand in yours, silently willing them your strength as they grit their teeth against the pain of getting stitches. Or, if the casualty was bad enough, you pace for hours outside the operating room. You remind everyone to eat, to drink water, to rest, even when you barely do so yourself.

And it’s not just the physical stuff, either. You make it clear that your office door is always open. No matter what time of day. If you’ve gone to bed, they can come to your personal quarters and you’ll get up without hesitation. There’s been many a night when you’ve been awake at midnight, quieting one of your men having a breakdown or PTSD episode. You assure them that there’s no shame in crying. That it’s okay to let go. That they’re safe.

However…

There’s a problem. And that problem is that you’re too undeniably attractive. Not just in body, but in the way you treat them. You’re old enough to be their collective father, and you act like it, keeping them all out of mischief when on-base and making sure their brains don’t get blown out when in a firefight.

The entire unit is head-over-heels for you. Logan acts like a lost puppy, trailing you around everywhere you go, along with a crowd of the younger guys. They’re affectionately called your “ducklings,” because they act like they’ve imprinted on you.

Hesh is a little different than his brother, Logan. He just wants you to tell him he’s done a good job. He forces himself to beat his own personal records, to achieve goals you set for him. Because when you clasp him on the shoulder and tell him, “Good job, son,” he feels something swell and ache in his chest in a way it never does with his real rather, Elias.

Keegan is your right-hand man. Your shadow. Silent, deadly, but like a wolf you’ve trained to obey without question.

You’re the tempering to Ajax’s brashness, his loudness. You keep him level. Make him think before he acts. You’re one of the only people he ever shows respect to.

You walk into the mess hall, and everyone quiets down. There’s a few greetings, your soldiers always excited to see you.

“Evening, sir.”

“Captain on deck.”

“How’s it going, Captain?”

Scars cut through your pale skin, each holding a story. Grey is just beginning to touch at your temples, but you’re still as fit as everyone else, or more so. You give a nod to each of them, returning the hellos as you grab a tray and get in line for food.