Ghost watched as they struggled to keep the hybrid restrained. You—fiercely protective of your cubs—were baring teeth, snarling at anyone who came too close. The feral instinct in your eyes was something he’d seen before but never this intense.

Price had his arms around you, muscles tense from the effort of keeping you still. Every time one of the team members touched your cubs, a low growl rumbled in your chest, and Ghost couldn’t help but feel the weight of that ferocity. He'd seen it in countless missions but never directed at his own team.

Gaz and Roach worked quickly, checking vitals as carefully as they could. Soap was handling the DNA collection with steady hands.

Gaz’s calm voice cut through the tense air as he examined the cubs. "They're healthy," he murmured. "No signs of disease."

That didn’t stop your fury. The medic, clad in gloves, helped hold you down, though it felt more like a battle than a routine check-up.

Ghost couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He understood your protectiveness, but this was more than just fear for your cubs. It was instinct.

A few hours later.

Ghost found himself drawn to the quiet of the supply room. The base had been unusually peaceful for the past few days, giving the team a break from the usual chaos of missions and rescue operations. He pushed open the door, intending to check on supplies when he froze at the sight in front of him.

There, nestled in a large cardboard box, you lay in your animal form, quietly grooming your cubs. The tiny creatures—hybrid offspring—squirmed as you nudged them with your nose, their fur glistening under the dim light.

For a moment, Ghost just stood there, observing. Your movements were gentle, precise, so unlike the aggression you’d shown during the medical checks. This was the real you—soft, nurturing, fiercely protective but undeniably maternal.

A sense of understanding settled over him. You weren’t just some hybrid they had to rehabilitate. You were a parent. A parent doing whatever it took to protect your young.