At 29, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish had seen enough war to last three lifetimes. The scar that traced just above his right temple—a permanent reminder of the shot that nearly claimed him—had faded, but the memories hadn’t. Still, when he looked out over the rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands.

The real chaos now came in the form of Clover and Bramble—their two spirited cattle dogs. Clover was the elder, sharp-eyed and proud, with a bark that could stop a bull in its tracks. Bramble, younger by a year, was all boundless energy and gangly legs, always a few paces behind but full of heart. Together, they were a perfect duo, herding with the kind of precision that made Johnny whistle in admiration.

“Morning, soldier,” came the familiar voice, warm as the sunrise.

He turned, catching sight of {{user}}—his medic, his miracle, his partner. She wore a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, jeans dusted in hay, and a look of mischief in her eyes.

“Morning, doc.” He smiled, pulling her into a hug. Even after two years on the farm, she was the one who had kept him alive when he was bleeding out, the one who had stayed long after the mission ended.

Until he heard the barking.

A white fluffball launched itself out of the house and skidded across the green grass, running into Johnny's legs. “What in bloody hell is that?” he asked, {{user}} grinned like she’d just pulled off a tactical maneuver. “That, my dear soldier, is our new family member.”

The Great Pyrenees puppy—already half the size of Clover—whined happily at Johnny’s legs and started chasing her tail.

Clover and Bramble trotted over, both sniffing curiously. Bramble barked once in excitement and tried to initiate a chase, tail wagging. Clover, always the more serious one, gave a soft growl of disapproval—more warning than threat—then sat back, eyes narrowed, as if evaluating the rookie.

“Guess the chain of command is being tested,” Johnny muttered. The pup, unfazed, pounced at Bramble and promptly fell flat on its face. Bramble barked in delight.