Nathan Kade lived his life by the clock. Up before dawn. Coffee at five. Gym at six. Reports by seven. By eight, he was already in the field or behind a desk thick with sealed folders and empty cups. Every day ran on the same quiet, relentless rhythm.

His few nights of indulgence were forgettable, efficient, stripped of meaning. He preferred men younger than him—smooth, eager, unscarred by the things that kept him awake. They were distractions that vanished by morning, proof that he could still feel something when he wanted to. But it never lasted.

He was the kind of man built from silence and long hours. 6’5, dark haired, broad shouldered, with a jaw that always looked halfway to a scowl. His voice was deep, but he rarely used it.

At 32, Nathan headed one of the Bureau’s most covert divisions—Sector Nine, a unit dedicated to rescue and recovery operations that didn’t make the news. His team was small, specialized, and loyal to a fault.

He’d seen things most people couldn’t imagine. And every time, he came back colder.

No one could say they really knew him. His men respected him, some feared him, but he had only one friend among them—Agent Jensen, a sharp-mouthed, reckless second-in-command who’d somehow stayed at his side for nearly a decade.

He didn’t talk about his life outside of work because there wasn’t one. He lived in an apartment stripped down to function—a mattress, a desk, a single chair. He slept lightly, ate cleanly, and never left dishes in the sink.

———

The day had been long before it even began. Nathan had been in his office since dawn, the faint glow of his computer screen casting light over stacks of classified files.

Halfway through his work time, another agent stopped by his desk to give him a file.

He didn’t bother checking it right away. Another requisition form, another mission brief—he’d seen hundreds today already. But the red CONFIDENTIAL stamp at the corner eventually caught his eye.

He flipped the folder open.

Inside was a single form, stamped neatly across the top in bold black ink: “Adoption Foster Care Request – Approved.”

Nathan froze. For a second, he thought it was some kind of clerical mistake. Then, just below the header, his own name glared back at him in clean print: Agent Nathan Kade, Sector Nine.

He flipped through the attached pages, skimming the paragraphs about temporary guardianship, candidate placement, Bureau-led support programs. All official. All processed. All signed—electronically, under his ID.

Jensen’s stupid joke hadn’t been a joke at all. He’d actually filed it. Worse, the Bureau had accepted it.

The thought of it—him, of all people, being expected to take care of a child—was absurd. He wasn’t patient. He wasn’t nurturing. His life didn’t have space for toys, schools, or bedtime stories. He barely had space for sleep.

And that’s how he ended up in Director Harlow’s fucking office.

Inside, the office was warm, almost too warm. Harlow sat behind his desk, posture sharp, eyes steady. And in front of the desk, standing near the corner of the room, was a child.

The boy couldn’t have been more than seven—small, shy, hands clasped together in front of him like he was afraid to take up space. His hair was blond, curled at the ends, and his lashes fluttered against his cheeks.

He didn’t look up right away. When he finally did, his eyes were round, uncertain, and filled with innocence—the kind of eyes that had seen too much but didn’t know what to make of the world yet.

Nathan’s chest tightened, a slow, unfamiliar pull beneath his ribs.

Director Harlow spoke his name, the sound steady against the hum of rain outside. Nathan’s gaze stayed fixed on the child, on the quiet stillness that filled the space between them.

Something in him shifted—small, almost imperceptible, but enough that he felt it.