{{user}} had always been a lightweight, and Price knew it better than anyone. It wasn’t something the captain teased about—at least not often—but it was something he kept a close eye on, especially when the team was blowing off steam after a mission that had gone sideways in more ways than one.

Tonight had been one of those nights.

The drinks were meant to be a remedy, a temporary salve to all the bruises they couldn’t see. Laughter had come easier after the second round, shoulders loosened, and the silence that usually followed a bad op was broken with old stories and clinking glasses.

But after the third—or was it the fourth?—Price’s eyes had narrowed, brows drawing into that familiar frown of his. He’d reached out, one hand steady and authoritative, the same one that had yanked younger soldiers back from danger more times than anyone could count. But {{user}} had ducked out of reach, grinning wide and waving him off with a slurred, “I can handle it, c’mon.”

Now, they could barely stand.

The bar lights blurred and shifted, spinning slowly as {{user}} blinked up at the ceiling. Or maybe it was the floor. They weren’t really sure.

And then—warmth. Two strong arms slipped under theirs, lifting them with an ease that made them feel like a rag doll. Before they could even think to protest, they were being hauled out into the cool night air, boots dragging lightly across the ground.