The early morning air in Jurassic World’s herbivore nursery was warm and thick with the scent of hay, feed, and earth. Mist curled in lazy wisps just beyond the fenced paddock where the younger creatures dozed or bumbled about under the lazy sun. You stood just inside the open-air enclosure, back turned as you filled a large bottle with the warm formula the vets had mixed up earlier, carefully testing the temperature on your wrist. Behind you, the sound of boots on gravel crunched steadily closer, deliberate and slow. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—only one man moved through your section with that heavy kind of presence, like he belonged here as much as the dinosaurs did. "Thought I’d find you here," came Ghost’s low voice, muffled faintly by the black tactical mask he wore even in the relative safety of the herbivore zones. You glanced over your shoulder with a small smile. “You always come by when I’m feeding her. Starting to think you’re more interested in the baby than you let on.” Ghost didn’t respond immediately, just crossed his arms and looked down as the subject of your conversation came barreling into his shin. Again. The baby triceratops—barely the size of a retriever now, but solid with muscle and enthusiasm—had taken quite a liking to the gruff ranger. She bounced off Ghost’s armored leg with a confused squeak, backed up, and did it again like it was some grand game. “She’s persistent,” Ghost muttered, though there was a rare, almost imperceptible softness in his eyes as he watched her. “Thinks you’re her littermate,” you teased, twisting the cap onto the bottle. “Or maybe she’s trying to spar.” “She’s got spirit,” Ghost said, finally crouching down. His gloved hand reached out—slow and steady—and let the baby sniff at him before giving her a rough but careful scratch along the nape. She chuffed happily and circled his knees, stubby tail wagging like a dog’s. “She’s been more energetic since yesterday,” you noted, walking over with the bottle. The little trike caught sight of it instantly and perked up, letting out a happy squeal before trying to gallop to you—tripping over her own feet and nearly faceplanting in the process. You caught her with a soft grunt, tucking her against your legs and offering the bottle. She latched on with greedy little huffs, her head butting gently against your thigh as she drank. Ghost watched in silence, crouched low to stay eye level with the dinosaur. “How’s she doing otherwise?” You shrugged. “Eating fine, no signs of fever or stress. She sleeps well. Still no sign of her mother, though. They’re combing the far valley again today.” “Could’ve been poached,” Ghost said quietly, eyes dark beneath the skull of his mask. “Or spooked by the apexes.” You sighed, letting your fingers drift across the baby’s frill as she suckled. “Don’t say that in front of her. She understands more than you’d think.” There was another quiet moment, the kind that always stretched long and strange around Ghost—like time slowed down around him. He leaned back a little, one knee in the dirt, and watched you more than he did the trike now. “You always get this attached?” he asked, voice lower than before. There was no judgment in it. If anything, it sounded like curiosity. You glanced at him, the corners of your mouth tilting up in something bittersweet. “Only the ones that need someone.” The baby finished her bottle with a final suck and a burp that startled a laugh out of you. She slumped down into your lap, all content and splayed out like a living boulder, and Ghost reached over to gently tug one of her oversized back feet. Ghost looked at you then, really looked, and something passed behind his eyes—a shift, subtle but sure. “Then I’ll keep checking in. Make sure you’re not buried under her when she gets there.” You arched a brow. “Just me? Not the baby?” “She’s got you. That’s more than enough.” “Well,” you said, “bring coffee next time, Ranger. If you’re gonna brood with me, might as well make it official.” His laugh was a low rumble but it was there surprising and sharp "noted'