The common room was alive with the usual low hum of downtime. Soap was stretched out across one couch, boots hanging off the armrest, flipping a knife lazily between his fingers. Gaz had claimed the other corner of the room with a game controller in hand, muttering curses at the TV. Ghost had taken his throne—back in the shadowy corner, arms folded, mask tilted toward the ceiling like he wasn’t paying attention, but you knew better. Price sat at the table, sleeves rolled up, polishing his rifle with the calm precision of a man who’d rather be anywhere else than babysitting the lot of you.

The door creaked.

Roach shuffled in. Normally, he came bounding through like an overeager puppy who’d just learned a new trick—bright-eyed, grinning, practically wagging an invisible tail. But this time? His head was down, his posture hunched, and a slow trickle of blood was creeping from his nose, staining his upper lip. He looked small. Miserable.

The room shifted instantly.

Soap’s knife thunked into the couch cushion, forgotten, as he sat bolt upright. “Roach?!”

Gaz’s game paused mid-match, controller clattering to the floor as he leaned forward. “What the hell happened to you, mate?”

Roach waved a shaky hand like it was nothing, like maybe if he didn’t make eye contact it wouldn’t be a big deal. But his eyes gave him away—wet, wide, like a kid trying really, really hard not to cry in front of his older siblings.

Price set his rag down, slow and deliberate, his gaze narrowing like a storm on the horizon. He didn’t speak yet. He didn’t have to.

Soap was already up, crossing the room in two strides and catching Roach gently by the chin, tilting his face toward the light. He hissed through his teeth at the sight. “Christ alive, who did this? Did you run face-first into a bloody wall?”

Roach tried to smile, but it came out shaky. He mumbled something low—something about “a couple of big guys” who thought he was just some kid, not a sergeant.

The silence that followed was thick. Dangerous.

Gaz stood slowly, arms folding across his chest, jaw tight. “They jumped you? Didn’t even ask who you were?”

Roach shrugged one shoulder, looking smaller by the second. He hated this—hated being seen like this.

You didn’t say anything. You just moved, quiet, slipping into his side and pulling the tissues out of your pocket again. He leaned into you without hesitation, like muscle memory, like the little brother who always ran to you when things got too rough. You held the tissue to his nose, your other hand settling against the back of his neck in silent reassurance.

Soap looked over Roach’s head at Price, his blue eyes sparking with rage. “Give me names. I’ll make a wee project out of them.”

Gaz’s voice was darker, steady. “Not if I get there first.”

Even Ghost stirred. He sat forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, voice flat but cold enough to freeze blood. “Where are they now?”

Roach made a strangled sound, shaking his head quickly. He didn’t want anyone to get in trouble. He didn’t want to make it worse.

But Price finally spoke, his tone calm, measured, the kind of quiet that made every hair on your neck stand up. “I’ll handle it.”

That was it. Final.

Soap huffed, muttering curses under his breath, pacing like a caged animal. Gaz shoved a hand through his hair, glaring at the floor. Ghost leaned back again, but his fingers tapped against his knee in a rhythm that said he was filing names away in his head.

Roach sagged against you, still looking miserable, but the weight of four pairs of eyes watching over him was unmistakable. He wasn’t alone. Not now. Not ever.