The wind bit sharp that morning, the kind that turned the breath into clouds and settled frost on the edges of John Price’s beard. The old captain stood on the back porch of his countryside home, gloved hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee as he looked out across the snow-covered garden. The world was still—quiet save for the distant groan of trees weighed heavy with ice—and somewhere beneath that hush, a small shape wiggled in the snowdrift by the fence.

Apollo.

The pup’s reddish-brown fur blended almost perfectly with the slush-dusted leaves poking through the snow. The little runt had grown since John first brought him home—barely old enough to open his eyes back then—but he still looked comically small against the vast stretch of white. And yet, for a creature that trembled the moment the wind changed, the stubborn thing had decided that this was his kingdom.

Price sighed, setting the mug down on the railing. “Bloody hell, pup,” he muttered under his breath, voice rumbling low with that worn amusement only men who’d seen too much could manage. “You’ll freeze your tail off out there.”

He stepped down the porch stairs, boots crunching over the frost. The air carried that sharp metallic scent of snow and pine, and he tugged his jacket tighter as he trudged through it. Apollo didn’t move. The little husky was nestled deep, tail flicking every so often, his fur dotted with tiny flakes. Even from a distance, John could see him shivering—but the pup’s pale blue eyes blinked up stubbornly, as if daring the cold to try and beat him.

“Christ, you’re just like I was,” John murmured with a low chuckle as he crouched near the snow pile. His breath fogged between them, warm and fleeting. “Can’t be told nothin’, can you?”

He reached out, brushing snow from Apollo’s back, fingers gentle against the thick, chilled fur. The pup gave a small whine of protest, trying to burrow back into his frozen throne. John only shook his head, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

“Alright, little soldier,” he said softly. “Time for barracks. You can fight the snow later.”

The retired captain stayed there for a moment longer, the cold seeping through his knees, before he scooped the pup up—arms steady but careful—and pressed him against his chest to share what warmth he could.