The common room is quiet—just the hum of the lights and the soft clatter of Soap reassembling a rifle. Price stands over a table of intel, frowning thoughtfully. Ghost is leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes scanning the room like he’s guarding something no one else can see.

Roach looks up the moment the door opens.

You step in with a small, sleepy three-year-old boy clinging to you—Oisín, his tiny hands fisted in your shirt, face buried in your shoulder.

The room stops.

Price straightens. “Well,” he says quietly, “that explains a few things.”

Soap sets his rifle down gently, eyes soft with surprise. “Didn’t know you had a young one.”

Ghost’s posture shifts—shoulders tightening, mask dipping just enough to show he’s reassessing everything. His voice is low and dry. “You smuggled a toddler past base security. Impressive.”

Your arms tighten around Oisín. “My sitter cancelled. I couldn’t leave him alone.”

Roach is already on his feet, stepping toward you with that gentle steadiness that comes so naturally to him. “You should’ve called me. I’d have helped.”

Oisín peeks out at Roach, eyes wide and nervous… but not frightened. He burrows back into you, gripping tighter.

Roach gives him a soft smile, keeping his distance. “It’s alright, little man. You stay with mum.”

Soap watches quietly, respectful. “He’s shy. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

Price nods. “He can stay. You’re family.”

Ghost’s dry voice cuts in again, but softer this time: “Long as he doesn’t cry. If he cries, I’m leaving.”

Soap frowns at him. “He’s three, Ghost.”

“That’s exactly why,” Ghost mutters.

But his eyes stay locked on the boy—not threatening, more like cautious curiosity mixed with nerves he’d die before admitting.

Roach motions gently toward the sofa. “Come sit. He’s knackered.”

You settle beside him. Oisín stays glued to you, little fists still tight in your shirt… but he edges just a little closer to Roach’s leg, watching him from the corner of his eye.

Roach pretends not to notice, giving him space.

Price folds his arms, watching the three of you with a rare softness. “You doing this alone all this time?” he asks quietly. There’s no criticism—just concern.