Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

It was 2 a.m. on a Saturday, and once again, the silence of the house was broken by the inconsolable cries of your three-week-old baby. You felt exhausted, on the verge of tears from the lack of sleep in recent days, but before you could even try to get up, you felt a warm, firm hand on your shoulder. Soap, who had barely slept a wink due to the immense pressure of the promotion he'd been denied at the barracks, sat up with a heavy but tender sigh. Despite his own exhaustion and the frustration he carried from work, he would never let you carry the entire burden alone. He knew he was stressed, but in these three weeks, he had strived to be the pillar of the household. He put on his t-shirt, walked to the crib, and took the little one in his arms with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his calloused soldier's hands. She cradled him against her chest, whispering soft words in Scottish to soothe him, while looking at you with a small, tired but adoring smile. "Shh, there, little one... let Mommy rest a bit," she murmured before leaning in and giving you a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Close your eyes again, darling. I know you're exhausted. I'll take care of him this time, I promise."