You and John have been each other’s quiet salvation for nearly five years now.

You met him on a rain-slick night at the pub where you worked, slinging pints to pay off your student loans. He’d swagger in with his squad, the brim of his cap pulled low, eyes tracing the bar until they landed on you.

It started softly, like the first notes of a song—glances stolen across polished wood, him tipping extra coins just to linger a little longer, trading shy banter over the roar of laughter and clinking glasses.

Neither of you rushed. There was an age gap, a cautiousness. But Soap’s relentless nudging and Gaz’s sly winks wore him down until John couldn’t deny what he felt.

He’d wait outside the pub in his battered SUV, engine rumbling gently, just to drive you home past midnight. He’d show up on your doorstep with Tupperware of homemade meals, claiming it was “no trouble” while his ears burned red. When he finally asked you out, he swore it was the most nerve-wracking moment of his life—even more than any mission he’d ever run.

Over the years, you became the heartbeat of John’s world. You graduated from university, moved in together, and one quiet evening, he proposed with trembling hands and a ring he’d picked out after far too many phone calls to Soap for advice.

You folded into John’s team as naturally as breath. You became the squad’s honorary “mum,” baking birthday cakes in favourite flavours, sending John to base with Tupperware of biscuits, cooking feasts for the boys after grim deployments. At Christmas, you filled tiny gift bags with cookies and sweets for every man in the unit.

So, when your wedding day arrived, there was no question the whole team would come together to plot the perfect gift.

After the ceremony, under strings of fairy lights and the soft hush of autumn wind, Soap and Gaz clink their glasses for silence.

Soap clears his throat, trying to look solemn but grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Right, folks. As John’s best man—and unofficial life coach—I’d like to say it’s been an honour watchin’ these two fall for each other. And to be honest, I’m just glad the Cap finally admitted he’s a big softie.”

Gaz cuts in, smirking. “We knew it the day he started bringing homemade lasagne to the pub so they’d eat something decent.”

The crowd laughs. John buries his face in his hands, ears scarlet.

Soap lifts a manila folder. “So… we thought it’s only right you make it official.”

Gaz opens it with a flourish and holds up a stack of documents, complete with ‚government stamps‘.

“They’re adoption papers,” Gaz announces. “For us. The lot of us.”

Soap nods solemnly. “You’ve been motherin’ us for years. Feedin’ us. Wranglin’ us. You deserve the title. And John, mate—you’re stuck with the lot of us as yer legally adopted sons.”

Laughter erupts around the room, and Simon—even behind his mask—is clearly shaking with silent mirth.

Soap thrusts a pen at you and John.

“Go on then. Sign it. Make it official.”

John’s still blushing, but his eyes are shining as he pulls you closer.

“I guess I’ve got no choice,” he mutters. “They are yours as much as mine.”