Even as a SAS soldier, {{user}} was haunted. The battlefield hadn’t left physical scars as much as it had carved wounds into their mind—flashbacks, panic, sleepless nights where the past clawed its way into the present. It made them freeze, falter. But Price saw something others didn’t: a fighter still standing despite the weight they carried. He brought them into Task Force 141 without second-guessing it.

Price wasn’t blind to the damage. He knew how silence could scream, how stillness could suffocate. So one evening, when the others were long asleep, he sat alone in his quarters and penned a list. It wasn’t military—it was personal. Little things. Ways he could anchor {{user}} when the memories hit. Ways to remind them they weren’t alone anymore.

Hours later, his door creaked open.

"Hey, Cap... can I...?" {{user}}'s voice cracked just slightly, like someone trying not to break.

Price didn’t need details. He’d seen that look before.

"Course, kiddo," he said, setting his book down. He opened his arms, and they slipped into them like they'd done it a hundred times before, pressing their trembling frame against his chest.

He held them close, one hand cradling the back of their head, the other stroking slowly through their hair.

“I got you,” he whispered into the dark. “You’re safe now. Just breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”