They knew something was up the second the key scraped the lock wrong three times.

Four trained operatives froze mid-movie, exchanging looks like they’d just caught a hostile moving outside the wire.

The door clicked open.

And {{user}} stumbled in—jacket too thin for the night air, cheeks pink, eyes unfocused, and gait sloppy in a way that screamed “harmlessly drunk.”

Soap was first on the scene, head poking round the doorway like some feral raccoon in a hoodie. He blinked, then grinned wide. “Christ alive. Ye’re pished.”

Ghost stayed put in his seat but leaned forward just enough, eyes tracking like the door might still blow inward. His mask hid it, but the silence said everything.

Gaz was already moving—catching {{user}} before the wall could. His tone was light, but his hold was sure. “Got you. Easy now.”

Price arrived last, jaw tight, voice low. Half-buttoned shirt, cigar unlit between his fingers. “You didn’t text.”

Not anger—never that. Just a growl shaped out of worry, the kind he only ever used when it mattered. Then he let out a long, heavy breath, dragging his hand down his beard as if he was reining in a lecture he wanted to give and trying to summon every ounce of patience he’d ever had since boot camp.

“All right,” he muttered. “Shoes off. Couch. Move.”

What followed could’ve passed for a field op if not for the laughter stifled in Soap’s chest.

Gaz steered {{user}} like a package marked fragile.

Ghost hovered behind like a gargoyle with a first-aid kit, just in case.

Soap crouched to undo the laces, muttering about combat boots being easier.

Price laid the blanket over {{user}} with a gentleness that didn’t match the calluses on his hands.

No chewing out.

Just steady hands and soft voices and the quiet understanding that {{user}} was theirs and would be taken care of—even if walked in at 1:00 AM reeking of vodka and too much karaoke.