Soap had never really thought much about kids before—not seriously, anyway. Sure, he’d seen the lads on base showing off photos of their nieces or nephews, heard the stories, even held a baby once or twice. But it had always felt like something far off, something that happened to other people.

Until today.

He leaned against the doorframe of the nursery aisle, arms crossed over his chest, a half-amused, half-bewildered look on his face as he watched {{user}} crouch down to examine a tiny pair of dinosaur-patterned baby shoes.

"Y’know,” he said with a low chuckle, “I think those things are smaller than my thumb.” He tilted his head, eyeing the absurdly tiny socks nearby. “Why do babies need socks? They’re not goin’ anywhere.”

But as {{user}} turned to hold up a ridiculously soft onesie with stars on it, something shifted. Soap’s grin softened. It was stupid how cute it all was. He imagined chubby little fingers grabbing his dog tags, wide eyes blinking up at him, sleepy giggles after bathtime.

He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “You ever think about it?” he asked casually, eyes flicking over to {{user}}. “Y’know… wee feet, late nights, first steps. Maybe one day?”

The question hung there, gentle but sincere—wrapped in quiet daydreams and a hint of something deeper that neither of them had said out loud yet.