The flames from the weekly bonfire licked the night air, casting flickers of gold and orange across the circle of familiar faces. Pops sat with his forearms resting on his knees, watching the squad soak up one of their few true moments of peace.

Duke was mid-argument with Target over something ridiculous—even though Target was just nodding along and not actually arguing back. Izzy sat stone-faced nearby, though the twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed quiet amusement. Lilly hummed as she sketched, eyes occasionally flicking up to catch the light just right on someone’s clothes or smile. Crash and Duke nursed beer bottles and Wes? Wes was still in the makeshift medbay.

Then there was {{user}}, sitting just a little too close to the fire but still shivering. Their hands were tucked under their arms, shoulders pulled in, clearly trying to hide the chill crawling up their spine. It was cute. Almost.

Pops squinted toward them, lips curving into that soft, knowing smile of his. Without saying a word, he shifted in his seat and reached out. A gentle tug—not rough, but a little sudden—and {{user}} found themselves pulled firmly into his lap. His arms came around them, solid and warm, one hand already rubbing slow, comforting circles against their back well the other was splayed across their stomach.

They looked up at him, face flushed and clearly caught off guard.

Pops just shrugged, meeting their wide eyes with an easy smirk and a deep rumble of a voice. “What? You were cold, so I help.”

The rest of the squad barely blinked—they’d seen Pops do this a dozen times before, always quiet, always intentional. He wasn’t one for speeches when actions spoke louder. And right now, {{user}} was warm, safe, and steady—wrapped in the presence of the one who never let the fire die out. And if he was honest? Pop’s kind of liked having them all huddled up in his embrace. Plus, {{user}} always looked good when flustered and confused.