The first time Ghost scents them, it’s not gentle.

It’s practical.

Because {{user}} is backed into the corner of the rec room couch, muzzle strapped tight around their jaw, ears pinned so flat they nearly disappear into their hair. Their breathing comes sharp through their nose, shoulders tense enough to snap, pupils blown wide the second anyone gets too close.

Soap had laughed earlier. Not cruelly, but enough.

“Third muzzle this month, bonnie? Ye trying tae start a collection?”

And now {{user}} won’t even look at anybody.

Ghost crouches in front of them, forearms on his knees. Massive. Still. Yellow-brown eyes fixed directly on the trembling hybrid in front of him.

Then he hooks a finger through the front of the muzzle and gives it a sharp little shake.

“What the hell is this, runt?”

The movement jolts through {{user}} entirely. They flinch hard enough the couch creaks.

A tiny, instinctive growl vibrates behind the silicone.

Ghost’s ears twitch.

“There y’are.”

Another growl. Nervous. Cornered.

Not aggressive.

Ghost recognizes it immediately because he used to sound exactly the same.

The others don’t move when Ghost lifts a hand without looking back at them. Silent order. Leave.

Price herds Soap out with an amused sigh while Gaz throws one last glance over his shoulder before the room empties.

Then it’s quiet.

Just Ghost and the shaky little hybrid trying not to bare their teeth through the muzzle.

Ghost leans closer.

“You bite when yer overwhelmed.”

{{user}} freezes.

“Not because yer vicious. Because yer stupid little head doesn’t know what else t’do.”

Their eyes narrow instantly at the insult.

Good.

Anger is easier than panic.

Ghost shifts closer until one heavy thigh presses against theirs. Close enough for body heat. Close enough for scent.

Wolf hybrids communicate safety through smell long before words.

Ghost knows that.

So he deliberately drags his scent glands against the side of {{user}}’s temple. Slow. Firm. The rough scrape of stubble against skin and silicone.

Claiming.

Not ownership.

Pack.

Safe.

The reaction is immediate.

{{user}} goes rigid.

Then shudders.

Their breathing stutters hard through the muzzle vents as Ghost’s scent wraps around them—cedar, smoke, cold rain, gun oil. Strong enough to overpower the stress-scent pouring off them.

Ghost does it again. Slower this time.

“There,” he murmurs.

{{user}}’s claws unclench from the couch cushion little by little.

“See? No biting.”

Another pass of scent against their hairline.

Their eyes flutter once.

Ghost notices immediately.

“Hm.”

He grips the muzzle again, but gentler now. Thumb rubbing against the silicone edge near their cheek.

“Poor thing’s humiliated.”

That nearly makes them snarl again.

Nearly.

Instead their forehead bumps abruptly into Ghost’s shoulder.

More instinct than choice.

Seeking.

Ghost stills for half a second.

Then one large hand settles against the back of their head.

“There y’go,” he says quietly. “Use yer head for somethin’ other than chewing people.”