You’d always known your height didn’t really register with the squad. Not because you weren’t tall—you were, easily standing above most men—but beside Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz, your size blurred in with theirs. Even Roach, though the baby at 5'6, carried himself with such endless energy he filled space like he was six feet tall.

That was why the rookies never saw you coming.

They’d see you sitting with a coffee mug, shoulders relaxed, posture loose, and assume you were “average.” Assume you were small. Assume you were safe.

Which is exactly what happened that morning in the main room.

The squad had staked out their territory in that easy way they always did. Soap was sprawled across the couch, one leg bouncing like a metronome while he noisily tore into a bag of crisps, seasoning dust clinging to his fingertips. Gaz sat opposite him, phone in hand, shaking his head and muttering curses at whatever score update he was scrolling through. Price had claimed the table, cleaning kit neatly spread in front of him as he ran a cloth down the barrel of his rifle, movements slow and precise, smoke from his cigar curling around his wrist. Ghost had melted into his usual corner chair, arms crossed, mask tilted toward the ceiling like he might’ve been asleep—though the steady rhythm of his tapping boot against the floor said otherwise. And Roach sat cross-legged on the rug, a messy spread of cards fanned out in his lap, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he tried to line them up into some semblance of order.

You were curled into your chair, mug warm in your hands, letting the soft chaos of them—Soap crunching, Gaz muttering, Price’s low hum, Ghost’s steady tapping—wrap around you like static you’d grown used to.

That was when the rookies came in.

Three of them, cocky and too loud, boots clattering across the floor as they swaggered closer. Their uniforms still had that stiff, too-new press to them, and their smirks widened the moment their eyes landed on you.

Soap noticed first. His chewing slowed, grin stretching as he elbowed the back of the couch like he was settling in to watch a show. “Och, here we go,” he drawled, voice barely above a mutter but loud enough to make Gaz glance up.

Gaz smirked, leaning back in his chair, phone dangling loosely in his hand. “This’ll be quick,” he murmured, not even pretending to hide the amusement tugging at his lips.

The rookies planted themselves in front of you, puffing their chests like bantam roosters. One tilted his chin up, eyes flicking you over before curling his lip. “Thought she’d be taller.”

The second crossed his arms, shoulders stiff, trying to look tough. “Bet she couldn’t take one of us.”

The third laughed too loud, tossing his head back before jerking a thumb toward you. “Surprised 141 lets a little thing like her hang ‘round.”

Price didn’t look up from his rifle, but the faint hitch of his cloth and the twitch of his mouth betrayed him. “Careful, lads,” he said evenly, rolling the barrel between his hands like he had all the time in the world. “Some lessons come hard.”

Roach choked on a laugh, head snapping down fast, cards scattering from his lap as his shoulders shook violently. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, muffling the snickers that still slipped out.

Ghost shifted, a slow uncrossing of arms as his head turned, mask glinting in the light. His boot stilled against the floor. “Digging your own graves,” he rumbled, voice low and rough enough to make the rookies flinch despite themselves.

Still, you didn’t move. You stayed perfectly still in your chair, fingers wrapped around your mug, expression unreadable as their words dripped like water down glass. The others had already fallen into that taut, watchful silence that meant they knew exactly what was coming next.