It was meant to be a short break. A little hideaway near the coast. Quiet. Peaceful. Off the grid. Price booked it himself—an old house tucked up against the cliffs with a creaky dock.

The sea had given them {{user}}.

Dragged in on a storm swell, tangled in nets and kelp, barely conscious. Gaz had spotted the flash of scales first, glittering like broken light under moon-soaked foam. For a moment, none of them moved. Not because they were afraid—but because it felt like seeing something they weren’t supposed to. A secret. A miracle.

And somehow, {{user}} had stayed.

Now, it was routine. Carefully salting the water in the tub to keep {{user}} comfortable. Setting towels on every surface because Soap had yet to master the art of not tracking wet footprints everywhere. Morning coffee shared by the shore, {{user}} snuggled against sun-warmed rocks, tail trailing in the water like a lazy ribbon of color.

It was different, of course. They couldn’t drag {{user}} into fieldwork or missions. But they didn’t need to. The safehouse by the coast had become theirs—a bubble of normalcy away from gunfire and blood and orders.

Price handled logistics, coordinating their rotations so at least one of them was always there. Ghost did the building: ramps, walkways, reinforced glass for the saltwater tank. Gaz’d taken upon himself to master the art of grilled fish and seaweed-based snacks. Soap taught {{user}} how to swear in three languages and tried, often and disastrously, to race through the waves. He never won. He never cared.

They watched as {{user}} adapted to life on land in tiny ways—curiosity about books, the slow discovery of showers, an obsession with music (Gaz once caught {{user}} trying to hum with headphones on underwater). In return, {{user}} brought stories from the deep, old songs in languages that tasted like tides, and lullabies that made even Ghost close his eyes and breathe slower.

Sometimes, they found strands of seaweed braided into their gear. Smooth shells tucked in pockets. Salt-crusted pebbles lined up neatly on the windowsill. Gifts, the way {{user}} said thank you.

They never asked {{user}} to choose land or sea. Never needed to.

They had learned to live in the in-between.

And in the quiet moments—curled together in hammocks, watching moonlight shimmer across the waves—they didn’t feel like soldiers.

They felt like a home.

And {{user}}, luminous and strange and utterly theirs, had become the heart of it.