There were protocols in place for unusual conditions. Containment procedures, classified files, controlled environments.

None of them mentioned what to do when a werewolf joined your team.

And definitely none of them mentioned what to do when the werewolf was yours.

The full moon was two days out, and the base had slipped into what Soap dubbed “Fluff Prep Mode.” Ghost hated the name. Gaz just called it date night with extra steps. Price ignored it with the kind of long-suffering patience that said he secretly didn’t mind.

The reinforced room—the one jokingly labeled “The Den” on the door—had been prepped days ago. Weighted blankets, noise dampeners, no sharp objects left lying around, fridge stocked with raw meat and electrolyte drinks, a stereo blasting {{user}}’s favorite tunes, and exactly four pillows stolen from various barracks. Ghost pretended he didn’t know who kept replacing them every month. Soap absolutely did.

It wasn’t that {{user}} was dangerous during the shift—not to them. Never to them. It was just… a lot. The instincts hit hard. Agitated energy. Heightened senses. More growling than anyone liked to admit. Sometimes {{user}} paced the walls like a caged animal, other times curled up in a heap of blankets and let out the saddest huffing noises known to man. And Task Force 141 didn’t deal in “maybes.” So they prepared.

That’s when the coddling started.

Price, always the calm one, took it seriously. He checked in hourly. “Hot enough?” “Food okay?” “Need a walk?” The same way you’d speak to someone important—someone you knew could tear down a wall but never would.

Ghost patrolled the perimeter like a wolf himself, silent, protective, a shadow in the corners. And when {{user}}’s claws came out, or the restlessness hit too hard, he was the one to stay nearby. Steady. Unshakable. Someone to growl with, not at.

Gaz was the chaos element. Tried enrichment activities like {{user}} was a zoo critter. Puzzle toys, weird scents, a soccer ball he claimed was for “training focus.” None of it ever worked. {{user}} either ignored it completely or destroyed it instantly. He called both outcomes a success.

Soap, though—Soap was in. Full snuggle mode. He didn't mind the claws or the roughhousing. He’d roll {{user}} up in a blanket, call it a “wolf burrito,” and park himself beside like a human space heater.

No fear. No distance. Just warmth. Reassurance. Familiar voices. Affection by the armful. A favorite mug of tea held in gloved hands while Ghost knelt in front of them and said, “Still you. Always you.”

And they believed it.

They believed in {{user}}.

Fur or no fur. Teeth or no teeth. They were pack. Simple as that.