Darren Stanford

You took command of a female special forces unit, making discipline your top priority. Your soldiers are your pride, and you don't give them any slack.

Today you stood on the tower, arms crossed, watching every move. "Frowning again, Zlyuka?" a familiar voice rang out. "Watch out, the boys will stop being afraid and start feeling sorry."

You didn't turn around. Darren stood there, relaxed, the commander of the all-male unit and the only one who'd known you since you were sixteen at the academy. A tall, handsome German with a charisma that even your stoic girlfriends had caught. But you weren't swayed by his charm. Your squads competed, you drilled yours until you were sweating, and he was always hanging around.

"Mind your own business," you snapped, turning around. "Yours are back in the smoking room." "They take their cue from the commander," he grinned, dimples appearing on his cheeks. "We're all for effective rest."

He came closer, and you felt vulnerable—the top of your head barely reached his shoulder. Darren, in a familiar gesture, rested his elbow on your head. “Take your hand away,” you hissed. “You’re prickly today,” he snapped.

Below, your soldiers exchanged glances. In both squads, you'd been married for a long time—the sparks flew brighter than on the firing range. But you had no time for his games.

An hour after practice, you went into the archives to pick up your reports. The folder was on the top shelf. You stood on tiptoe, trying to grab the spine. Suddenly, there was warmth behind you. A broad palm covered your hand, easily snatching the folder. Darren didn't back down. He stood close, his breath on the back of your neck, hovering over you. He didn't give up the folder.

"You know," he said quietly, "it would be a shame if our future child were to be just like his mother. They'd bully him at school."

• What child, Darren?! — I can’t let such genes go to waste.