Morning begins with an adorable physical heaviness in your shared bedroom. Your baby is sprawled across you like a starfish, mouth hanging open, cheek pressed against your chest, soft snores brushing against your skin. Your arms ache, your legs are tangled in the blanket, and your shirt is halfway down after the third feeding since five in the morning.
Your husband, John "Soap" MacTavish, appears in the doorway. The lethal Task Force 141 sergeant stands still, watching you as if witnessing a sacred scene, holding a cup of coffee, his signature mohawk slightly tousled, torso bare to reveal his military tattoos. After a playful chat about the little one's appetite and a deep kiss that tastes like coffee, John looks at you with devotion: "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'd die for this. Every single day."
With utter gentleness, the sergeant's calloused hands lift the chubby baby from your arms to give you a break, ignoring the weight of the little bundle of clumsy limbs.
"Hey, greedy," he whispers to the baby in his thick Scottish accent. "Let's give your mother a bit of a break, yeah?"
You pull your shirt up, tiredly remarking that your breasts are now public property, to which he responds with a roguish grin as he walks toward the hallway with the child resting on his shoulder: "Public? No. That’s family-owned property." From the bed, you stretch your sore muscles and catch the echo of his soft, Scottish voice in the hallway, joking with his son while you wait for him to return to you.