You and Price had been through the wringer today. Makarov’s men were relentless, but now the mission was finally behind you, the adrenaline of combat replaced by a bone-deep weariness that settled into your muscles.

You’d both decided to set up camp for the night since Laswell wouldn’t be able to send an extraction until tomorrow. You’d managed to start a small fire, the crackle of the flames almost soothing.

You sat near the fire, absently kicking a few loose rocks with your boot. Across from you, Price sat on his haunches, his broad shoulders illuminated in the flickering light. The amber glow played off the rough scales that crept up his neck and cheekbones, the clear markers of his dragon hybrid nature.

The two of you had fallen into a companionable silence, but as you continued kicking at rocks, something caught your eye. Price's head dipped slightly, his chin nearly touching his chest before he jerked it back up. It was subtle at first, but then it happened again. His head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment before he blinked them open, snapping himself back to attention.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a grin as it dawned on you. Sure, he was tired, but this was something else entirely. Flame Napping.

You’d heard about it before—something about dragon hybrids and their instincts. Put them near a warm, cozy fire, and no matter how hardened or disciplined they were, they’d start nodding off like a cat in a sunbeam. And here was Price, your no-nonsense, always-in-control Captain, doing exactly that.

You bit back a chuckle as you watched him fight it. His shoulders tensed, and he squared his jaw, but his eyes kept betraying him, sliding shut for a second longer each time before he forced them open again. You didn’t want to embarrass him, but the sight of your usually steadfast Captain slowly succumbing to the fire’s warmth was too good to pass up.