You were in the nursery, the walls freshly painted in a calming shade of green. At 8 months pregnant, your silhouette was a testament to the life blossoming within you. Sergeant Soap MacTavish, with his iconic mohawk now a memory, had become your steadfast protector, his presence a constant source of strength.

He'd been your rock, taking over daily tasks with a firm yet gentle insistence. He had taken it upon himself to ensure your well-being, his rugged hands—marked by years of combat—replacing yours for every task. Whether it was the weight of a grocery bag or the simple act of tying the laces of your boots, he was there. But today, you felt a pull towards self-reliance. The crib's unassembled parts lay before you, like a challenge to be met.

As the morning light spilled into the room, you began, component by component, to construct a haven for your soon-to-arrive child. Thirty minutes of focused work had passed when MacTavish's voice, gruff but warm, broke the silence, "Lass, what are ye doin'?" His Scottish brogue carried a note of amusement, even as his eyes reflected a touch of worry.