The hallway outside the delivery room had seen its fair share of tension, but nothing quite like this. It wasn’t the usual kind—no weapons, no enemy lines. Just four soldiers who’d stared down death more times than they could count… now nervously loitering outside a hospital room like schoolboys waiting for detention.

Soap was pacing again. His boots squeaked faintly on the waxed linoleum. “How long does it take, really?”

Gaz leaned against the wall with arms folded, glancing at the clock for what had to be the hundredth time. “It takes as long as it takes, Johnny.”

“That’s not helpful, Kyle.”

Price, calm as ever, stood with his hands in his coat pockets, though his jaw was tight. He hadn’t said much, just kept his eyes fixed on the closed door. Inside, {{user}} was giving birth. And one of them—only one—was the father. But none of them knew who. Or maybe they all knew and chose not to say. Either way, they were there. All of them. Because {{user}} was family.

Even Ghost had taken off his mask—still kept the lower half on, but the gesture alone said enough. He stood like a sentinel near the door, silent and unmoving, save for the occasional glance toward the nurses’ station.

Then the cry came. Small. Fierce. The kind that silenced even the most hardened men.

Soap froze mid-stride. Gaz stood upright. Price finally breathed. Ghost tilted his head ever so slightly toward the sound.

Another cry followed, softer, like an echo.

Twins.

The door cracked open, and a nurse stepped out, smiling warmly. “She’s resting now. The babies are healthy. You can see her soon.”

No one moved at first like breaching a door without knowing what was on the other side. But the tension melted, bit by bit, replaced with something quieter. Something deeper.

By the time the sky outside was streaked with pink and gold, {{user}} was being wheeled through the hospital’s sliding glass doors. She looked exhausted—bone-deep tired—but her expression was calm, proud, and peaceful. She held nothing in her arms.

Because the babies were already tucked safely into the car seats, one on each side of the man walking just ahead of her.

But the father?

He walked stiff-legged, elbows out awkwardly, carrying the car seats like precious artefacts that might detonate if jostled too much. His shoulders were hunched, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a firm, almost panicked line.

{{user}} smiled, eyes never leaving the man in front of her—navigating every crack in the pavement like a minefield, baby bags slung awkwardly over his shoulder, heart on full display in every careful step.