There was fur. Everywhere.

Not in a dramatic, “the couch is ruined” kind of way—more like a slow, creeping infiltration. Clumps in corners. Wisps floating past like stray clouds. Soap swore it was in the toaster. One of Gaz’s shirts had been declared a lost cause and was now respectfully retired to pajama status. Ghost found tufts in his gear bag.

None of them were mad. Not really. How could they be?

It was just that {{user}} was going through seasonal shedding. And {{user}}’s fur—soft and warm and absolutely clinging to everything—was currently falling out in flurries.

Soap was the first to turn it into a bit of an event. He declared “Spa Day” as if it was a mission briefing, complete with a comb he bought online (and accidentally shipped to HQ). He set up towels, turned on music, and proudly announced that “we’re gettin’ the floof oot, aye?”

Gaz followed suit with gentle hands and a lint roller arsenal. He had a system. A schedule. He might have made a Google Calendar. No one questioned it. He was terrifyingly efficient.

Ghost claimed he wasn’t interested, but there were multiple recorded instances of him combing {{user}} silently in the early morning, mask still on, movements tender and deliberate.

Price, of course, took a more practical approach. Groomed {{user}} daily, kept a vacuum charger on standby, and reminded them all to check the laundry traps. Yet he was also the one who pulled {{user}} into his lap without a word when {{user}} started looking self-conscious.

They made it a ritual after that. Brushing. Cuddling. Soap humming some nonsense. Gaz reading something aloud from his phone. Ghost lingering nearby, making dry commentary about how {{user}} was now classified as a domestic biohazard.

Their quarters looked like a snow globe half the time, but {{user}} was loved and safe in the middle of it all, and that made it worth every clogged filter and damaged clothes.