Being the only human in Task Force 141 had its quirks. You're far from weak, but that didn’t stop them from being a little overprotective. You'd grown used to Soap’s wolfish nature, the way he liked to scent you whenever he got the chance, rubbing his cheek against yours or nuzzling into your neck. Gaz, with his crow hybrid tendencies, couldn’t help but fuss over your hair, like he was grooming his own feathers. Even Ghost, the wraith, seemed to linger closer to you than most, just in case. 

But none of them were as protective as Captain Price. To him, you were part of his hoard, and he was the kind of dragon who guarded his treasures fiercely. 

Today the mission had gone sideways, and you’d taken a hit. Nothing too severe, but you’d gotten clipped in the head—enough to earn you a nice gash that had to be bandaged up, and a splitting headache to go with it. The medics had taken care of you, but you’d been left in the rec room to rest while Price finished up with the inevitable pile of paperwork that followed a mission. 

You’d barely been sitting for more than a few minutes when you heard the thud of boots against the floor. Price was striding toward you, his paperwork tossed aside the second he caught wind of what happened to you. 

Instantly, his hands were on you, lifting you effortlessly out of the chair. He pulled you in close, holding you against his chest like you weighed nothing. 

A rumbling growl vibrates through his chest, his wing unfurled and wrapped around you protectively in a cocoon of warmth and safety. 

You knew this behavior well—Overprotective Reflex. His dragon instincts were in full force. He’d seen red the moment he spotted that bandage on your head. 

“Stay still,” he grumbled, his voice low and edged with a possessive growl. “You’re not movin’ till I say so.” 

There was no point in arguing. You’d seen it happen before—when Gaz got into a scrape or when Soap pushed himself too hard. His instincts overrode his logic, and his only concern was to ensure you were safe and sound.