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ONE

GAGE

The lights in the office are too bright. Too sterile. Too damn official. I’ve always hated going to legal because it’s always something of an ordeal, and never a good one.

I sit across from the admin, trying to ignore the steady thrum of adrenaline in my veins. I feel so out of place sitting in here, with a car seat next to me. This isn’t a debrief. This isn’t a mission after-action review. It’s not even a reprimand after a drunken night at the bar.

This is a family matter.

And I don’t know the first fucking thing to do about it.

“Gunny,” the admin says, their voice low and even.

I’m sure I’m not the only marine he’s had to do this with.

Most of us do stupid shit on the reg and end up here at some point or another.

I just never thought it would be me. With a kid.

“We’ve reviewed your case and the situation with the child.

Your next steps depend on what you decide. You really only have two options.”

I don’t want to hear this. I want to walk out. I want to tell him to get me back on active duty, put me in the field, and get me away from all this shit . But I don’t. I can’t. Not when there’s a baby depending on me now.

I look down at her, asleep in her car seat.

Fuck, I’ve got to keep it together for her.

The admin pushes a folder toward me across the desk, and I glance down at it.

I don’t need to see the contents. I know exactly what’s inside: some official papers with a lot of legal jargon, a reminder that my life just got a whole lot more complicated.

In the stack of papers sit the results of the paternity test, the one the Corps had me get to be sure that Zoe is mine.

She’s mine.

“First, you can request a leave of absence,” he continues, giving me the briefest glance before returning his attention to the file.

“That would allow you to be on family leave. The child’s welfare would be your responsibility.

The Marine Corps can’t mandate the way you handle that, but we’d need proof you’re setting up a stable living situation and have the capacity to care for her.

” His eyes narrow. “You’re not exactly a civilian, Donovan. This isn’t a 9-to-5 job.”

I don’t have to be told twice. I know I’m not one of those office guys who can punch out at the end of the day. But I also know nothing about raising a kid. And that pisses me off more than I care to admit.

I’m not the type of guy that goes into shit and half-asses it and this is exactly what’s happening right now. The way I am so out of my element is pissing me off.

“I’m not leaving the Corps,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair.

I want to sound confident, but I can’t hide the edge in my voice.

I’ve been in the field more times than I can count.

I’ve served in combat zones, under fire, and here I am—sitting in some sterile fucking office, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with a baby.

“You don’t have to,” the admin responds.

He flips open the folder and taps on the pages inside, but I’m not really looking at the paperwork.

“The second option is to request someone to take over temporary primary care for her while you’re fulfilling your duties.

It could be someone within your family, say a grandparent for example, but we’d need documentation. Or...”

He trails off, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “Or you can hire help. A live-in nanny situation, someone to assist while you’re away.”

“Hell no.” My voice comes out louder than I intended, and I immediately want to take it back.

Zoe starts to cry and I reach down, unbuckling the straps and pulling her up to my chest. I don’t need some stranger in my house taking care of my kid.

My kid . That’s still sinking in, even though I’m holding a goddamn infant right now.

“I didn’t sign up for a nanny. I’m not some rich asshole who can afford that kind of thing. ”

The admin holds up a hand to quiet me. “I know, Gunny. No one’s asking you to be comfortable with it.

But let’s be clear: You’re her father. That means you have a responsibility to provide for her.

It’s not just about you anymore. You have to think about her future.

There is always adoption if you think that it’s too much. ”

I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing back the frustration rising in my chest. Fuck adoption, she’s my kid and there’s no way I’m giving her up.

I’m just not used to being told what to do, least of all by some desk jockey in a sterile room like this.

But this? This is different. I am her father.

And that means my priorities just shifted, whether I like it or not.

“Fine. No adoption, but I’m not bringing some random civilian into my house,” I say, my words coming out slower now, like they’re forming in real time in my head. “If I have to take leave, I’ll find someone I trust to help out. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

The admin nods, his expression more understanding now.

“Understood. But be prepared to prove you can provide a stable environment. We’ll need the paperwork on your housing situation, along with a plan for how you’ll care for her when you’re not available.

And don’t expect this to be quick. The Corps isn’t in the business of making these things easy. ”

I know he’s not lying .

Nothing in my life has been easy since joining the Corps. Not since the moment I signed that enlistment contract. But this? This is something else entirely.

I glance over at the higher up who’s been listening in, watching me closely. She’s an officer, and I’m sure she’s been around long enough to know how to cut through the bullshit. She finally speaks up, her voice soft but firm.

“You’ll need to get a temporary custody order from the court, Donovan. I know it seems like paperwork you shouldn’t have to deal with, but it’s necessary. Even with the Corps backing you, without legal documentation, you could face challenges. And it could delay or complicate any other steps.”

I bite back the urge to ask what the hell that means. I don’t want to know. I just want to make sure Zoe is safe. That’s it.

“So, what? I need a lawyer now.” I say, my voice rough.

“No,” she replies, unfazed by my tone. “We’ll help you. The Corps will help you. You’ll need a legal guardian’s agreement, proof of financial stability, and a plan for her care. The sooner we get this all in motion, the quicker you can settle in and figure out what your next steps are.”

I feel my throat tighten. This is moving too fast. Too much to deal with all at once. But I can’t ignore it. I can’t walk away.

“Got it,” I grunt.

The admin looks at me with a knowing gaze. “The Corps will support you where it can. But the responsibility is yours. No one’s going to decide for you.”

“Right,” I mutter. My knuckles tighten around the edge of the chair. I feel the old instinct kicking in—the one where I handle my shit by myself, the one that’s kept me alive this long. But this is different. I have to adjust. I have no choice.

“Okay,” I say finally, my voice low. “What’s next?”

The officer slides a set of papers across the table.

“These are your initial forms for requesting leave and the custody paperwork we’ll need.

Once we have these filed, we’ll help you set up the home safety evaluation and get everything processed.

I’ll also send you a list of resources you can contact for temporary childcare while you’re away. ”

“Temporary childcare,” I mutter under my breath. I hate the sound of those words. But I know she’s right. I can’t do this by myself. I can’t keep doing this by myself.

I reach for the papers, my mind already spinning with everything I need to do. How do I even begin to figure out a “stable environment” when I’ve spent most of my life in places that are anything but stable?

“Thank you, Donovan,” the admin says as I stand up. “And remember, no one’s expecting you to have all the answers right now. You just need to take the first step.”

I nod, trying to hide the doubt gnawing at me. But there’s no turning back now.