You wake to the gentle sensation of a hand on your shoulder, the familiar pressure warm and careful.

“Wake up, kiddo,” Price murmurs, voice soft with that gravelly calm you’ve come to find oddly comforting. It’s still early—the sky outside your window is barely beginning to brighten with the pale blue of dawn, and the faint rustle of trees in the breeze gives the moment a dreamlike stillness.

You blink, vision blurred by sleep and the weight of your lashes. The room smells like your blanket—clean linen and the lingering scent of campfire from last night. You rub your eyes with a quiet yawn, only to spot your small backpack already packed and zipped near the door. Your favorite hoodie is folded neatly on top, with a water bottle tucked into the side pocket. You didn’t do that. Price must’ve gotten everything ready while you slept.

Still foggy with sleep, you stretch your arms up wordlessly, your fingers curling in the air like a sleepy cat reaching for the sun. Price chuckles quietly, the sound low in his chest, and without hesitation, he lifts you into his arms. His flannel shirt is warm from his body, and you curl against him instinctively, cheek pressed to his shoulder as he carries you down the hall.

“You’re lucky I’m a morning person,” he teases softly, stepping carefully so you don't bounce too much.

The base is quiet this early. The only sounds are the occasional click of Price’s boots and the soft hum of the world waking up. Outside, the SUV is parked and ready, already packed with gear and snacks. Price opens the door with one hand and maneuvers you gently into the back seat, where you’re immediately met with the familiar chaos of Soap and Gaz mid-argument.

“I’m telling you, cereal is a soup—think about it. It’s got liquid, it’s got solid, it’s eaten with a spoon. Soup!”

Gaz throws his hands up. “That’s breakfast, you absolute maniac. Soup is hot. Cereal is cold. You don’t eat tomato soup with Froot Loops!”

“I mean, you could…” Soap smirks, clearly just trying to stir the pot.

Price rolls his eyes, mutters something about “children” under his breath, and shuts the door behind you.

Sandwiched between the two, you settle in, your head finding a natural resting place against Soap’s arm. He barely notices, still caught up in the great cereal debate, but you feel him shift slightly to make you more comfortable.

In the front seat, Ghost sits still and silent, buckled in with perfect posture. His masked face is turned toward the window, arms crossed, giving off that quiet “don’t talk to me before coffee” energy. A steaming travel mug rests in the cupholder between him and Price—almost certainly black coffee, knowing him.

The SUV rumbles to life with a low growl, and the tires crunch softly over the gravel as Price pulls out of the lot. The early morning sun stretches over the horizon, casting golden beams through the windows. The smell of fresh air, car leather, and someone’s strong peppermint gum fills the cabin.

You tug your hoodie over your head, the fleece brushing your skin, and curl your legs under you. The warmth of the car, the quiet murmur of voices, and the steady hum of the road begin to lull you again. Outside, the world starts to pass by in a blur—trees, fences, winding roads, the occasional gas station still closed for the morning.

Your eyes start to slip shut once more. Someone—probably Gaz—tucks a travel pillow between your head and the seat, and you hear him whisper, “Get some more sleep, little one. We’ve got a long ride.”

With the gentle sway of the car and the comforting presence of the team around you, you let yourself drift back into dreams, the road unwinding ahead, unknown and full of promise.