Ten years ago, the field was everything.

You and Price had been an inseparable force—two captains cut from the same coarse cloth, worn in different ways. You weren’t technically his superior, but the others said you walked like war itself, and he followed you like a shadow that learned how to lead. The others? They hadn’t come along yet. Ghost, Soap, Gaz—they were names you’d never met, futures you’d never live to see.

Price was your second-in-command. Loyal. Sharp. A little green around the edges but learning quick, under your fire and fallbacks.

That last mission was a mess of gunfire, blood, and smoke. You remembered the heat of the explosion, the taste of iron in your mouth. You remembered Price screaming your name across comms, his voice shaking the sky. You flatlined in the evac heli. Twice. Woke up three weeks later, ribs shattered, left leg barely functioning, and a medical discharge waiting at your bedside like a folded flag.

Price had visited once before your departure. He hugged you with the kind of silence only soldiers know. Neither of you said goodbye, not really. You both knew what that word cost.

Now you made coffee.

The café was small, peaceful—on the edge of a quiet little corner, tucked between a bookstore and a florist who always waved when you opened shop. You limped a little when you moved now, muscles melted into softness, lines deepening along your eyes and jaw, but it didn’t matter. The battlefield was behind you. Mostly.

The bell above your door chimed at exactly 1400 hours, like clockwork.

You looked up from wiping the counter—and froze.

John Price. Beard a little thicker now, chest broader, more tired around the eyes. But unmistakable. And flanked behind him, like trailing wolves, were three other men, each one wearing fatigue and edge like second skin.

The one with the skull mask stood nearest to him. Ghost.

Another with a charming grin and a bounce in his step—Soap.

And the third, sharp-eyed, composed—Gaz.

They looked at Price with the kind of loyalty you used to wear on your sleeve for him. Like he’d carried them through hell.

“Bloody hell,” you whispered, slowly straightening. “Look at you.”

Price’s face broke into something between a smile and a sigh of relief. “Thought it was time I introduced the boys to a legend.”

The boys?

Soap squinted. “This the café guy?”

“Café guy?” Gaz echoed, nudging him. “Show some respect, Soap. This is Captain {{user}}.”

Your mouth twitched at the title. “Not a captain anymore,” you said, voice dry but fond. “I make coffee now. And sandwiches. Real dangerous stuff.”

Ghost tilted his head. “Still looks like he could break a jaw.”

“Only if the customer skips the tip jar,” you deadpanned.

Price stepped forward first, the way he always did when it counted. You braced yourself for the handshake—but he didn’t offer one. Instead, he pulled you into a firm, careful hug.

You exhaled sharply against his shoulder. “Still smell like bloody cigars.”

“You missed it.”

“I didn’t.”

He laughed, low and warm.

The others trickled in slowly. Soap asked about the pastries. Gaz admired the plants by the window. Ghost said nothing but sat near the corner, watching you with eyes that didn’t miss much.

And you stood behind the counter, in your little apron, watching them move through your space—your boys by proxy. Price’s new team. His family. His legacy. Something in your chest swelled and twisted.

Not jealousy.

Pride.