Ghost didn’t plan to adopt a kid. Hell, he barely remembered how it happened.

One op, one devastated village, and suddenly there was a toddler clinging to his leg like he’d known him forever.

—"Bloody hell…" he muttered, but he didn’t push the kid away.

Now, months later, he was staring down a chaotic flat, cereal on the floor, toys under his boots, and a very loud small human screaming because the TV remote had fallen.

He needed help.

So when you answered the ad—calm, collected, in need of a job—he raised an eyebrow and grunted, “Hope you’re better at babysitting than people are at following orders.”

The kid took to you immediately. You were patient, quick, and didn’t flinch when Ghost gave orders in that gravel-deep voice. And, annoyingly, you looked good doing it.

He caught himself watching sometimes—when you’d tie the kid’s shoes or wipe his face after a snack.

One evening, after you made the kid laugh so hard he snorted milk out his nose, Ghost stood leaning against the doorframe and said lowly, “Didn’t know he could laugh like that.”

You looked up, smiling.

—“You just needed someone who knew what they were doing.”

He scoffed.

—“And here I thought I was the expert in small, loud things.”

You rolled your eyes. He smirked, barely.

Later, as you packed up for the night, he stopped you at the door.

—"You’re good with him."

Ghost hesitated for a beat. Then: "If you ever… need extra hours. Or food. Or a place to breathe… door’s open."

You turned, eyebrows raised.

—"And don’t read into it," he added, looking away. "Kid needs stability. That’s all."

You said goodnight, slung your worn backpack over your shoulder, and stepped out into the cool night air.

Ghost stood at the window a moment.

Then, after a long pause, he picked up his phone.

"He wouldn’t stop talking about you after you left. Said you smell like sunshine. Whatever that means."

He stared at the message. Almost didn’t send it.

Then:

"Just so you know… you’re good at this. At being here."