It started innocently enough—{{user}} had moved in next door to the safehouse on a in-between mission stretch. Just a rental. Temporary. So was the team’s presence there. No need to dive in too deep. Keep it friendly. Polite nods. Shared driveway. That sort of thing.

They noticed the kid first.

Small, loud, and utterly fearless, armed with a plastic dinosaur and a stick, making war-cries at birds in the communal courtyard. Ghost was the first to spot them through the curtains, squinted, and muttered, “That’s a tiny feral.” Soap immediately chimed in, “Aye, I’m already a fan.”

Then they saw {{user}}—dragging a stroller, juggling groceries, trying to coax the kid away from climbing a trash bin labeled MILITARY PROPERTY. Exhausted, clearly. Yet patient. The kind of patience even a seasoned operative couldn’t fake.

From then on, 141 had eyes on the window more often than the perimeter.

Getting involved wasn’t their intention.

But when Soap saw {{user}} struggling to wrestle both the kid and a stuck mailbox door in the rain, he was out there in under ten seconds, umbrella in one hand, grumbling something about how the bloody postman needs a proper smack. Gaz followed, quietly fixing the bent hinge without being asked. Price handed over a toolbox. Ghost gave the kid a tactical flashlight he claimed was “spare” (it wasn’t—it was his).

Then came the little things.

A thermos of coffee left on {{user}}’s porch in the mornings. Groceries carried up without comment. A soft knock when the baby monitor batteries went out and someone remembered {{user}} mentioned it in passing.

Ghost claimed he didn’t “do kids.” Two weeks later, he was silently repairing the kid’s toy truck with surgical precision and threatening Soap with death if he ever told {{user}}.

Soap, on the other hand, adored the chaos. He taught the kid how to yell in three different accents. He also swore up and down he didn’t shed a tear when they presented him a very upside-down drawing that might have been him. Or possibly a tank.

Gaz was the stealth favorite. He snuck in snacks and let them play “secret agent” using his comms earpiece (it was disabled, obviously… probably… maybe).

Price pretended not to smile when the kid referred to him as “Sir Grandpa.” And began to stash band-aids in his wallet. Cartoon ones. Just in case.

They didn’t mean to get attached.

But they did.

To the morning hellos over the fence. To the way their hearts seized when the kid called Ghost “Uncle Skull.” To the knock on their door every Sunday asking if the “soldier guys” were home. Their quiet, worn-down safehouse started to feel like something else entirely: a place with crayons in the junk drawer, juice boxes in the fridge, and warmth they hadn’t realized they were starving for.

They were merely the team that lived next door. The ones who were supposed to keep to themselves, stay under the radar.

But suddenly there was a drawing on their fridge—crayons and glitter, titled “My Family and The Men With Big Boots.”

And no one touched it.