He’d trained hundreds of soldiers in his lifetime. Seen twice as many come and go. Some washed out, some transferred, some buried. It was the way things were, and he’d learned the hard way not to get attached to any of them.

But then there was {{user}}.

The new rookie. Young, sharp, bright-eyed in a way he hadn’t been in years. You showed up with a file thin as paper and a reputation that meant nothing yet. They’d all noticed it long before he did. The way you moved around base, calm, observant, shoulders squared but not arrogant. The way you rarely spoke unless necessary. The way your temper stayed tucked beneath your ribs, only flashing out when someone pushed too far. The way your eyes narrowed in thought exactly like his did.

{{user}} had only been with the 141 a couple of months. Fresh from selection. File thin as paper. No family listed. No emergency contacts. Just a name, a rank, and glowing remarks from instructors about your precision, your patience, your grit. And something else, “methodical temperament.”

Gaz had joked once that it was like Price had somehow grown himself a younger clone. Soap called you “Little Captain” whenever he thought Price wasn’t listening. Price grunted, pretending he didn’t hear. Pretending it didn’t make something warm uncoil in his chest.

The truth was… he liked having you around. Liked watching you grow. Liked seeing the sparks of potential in you, the same sparks he once carried before life hammered them into steel. You were quick to learn, quicker to fight, and soft in all the places he’d never admit he’d lost.

He’d watch you sometimes from across base. Your mannerisms, the clipped way you spoke when you focused, the little flash of temper when gear jammed or someone messed up a formation. The stubborn tilt of your chin when Soap teased you. Even the way you tied your boots looked like something he’d taught twenty years ago. And he’d catch himself thinking:

If I ever had a kid… they’d look just like that. Temper like that. Fire like that.

And it scared him more than any battlefield ever had.

Because attachment was a luxury he could never afford, not in this world, not with the job he had. Losing people carved deep, jagged wounds, wounds he carried in his chest like medals he never asked for.

One evening after drills, he found {{user}} sitting alone on the back steps of the training building, elbows on your knees, sweat dripping from your brow. You looked exhausted, temples tight with the effort of keeping your breathing even. The same way he used to force himself to stay composed.

He approached quietly, boots crunching gravel. You didn’t look up until he stopped beside you.

He meant to say your name. He meant to keep it professional. But the word slipped out, low and rough, before he could stop it.

“…Good work today, kid.”