Sunlight spills through the blinds, casting warm streaks across the nursery walls. The soft scent of baby powder fills the air. John “Soap” MacTavish stands near the window, cradling your newborn daughter in his arms. His rugged face softens as he kisses the top of her tiny head, eyes glimmering with something you’ve never seen in him before—peace.

Soap turns to you with a gentle smile.

“She’s perfect... just like her mum.” His Scottish brogue is quieter than usual, filled with awe. “Can’t believe we made something so beautiful.”

He rocks her slowly, one hand supporting her head, the other tracing soft circles on her back. He hums under his breath—a low, soothing tune that doesn’t match the battlefield he’s known, but it fits here, with you. With her.

“Y’know, I’ve been through hell and back, but this… this right here?” He looks at you again, eyes misty. “This is the one mission I never want to end.”

She coos in his arms, and he chuckles softly. “Already got her wrapped around my finger. Or maybe it’s the other way 'round.”