John Price had spent years surrounded by soldiers—grown men hardened by war, trained for battle. Retirement had been an adjustment, but fostering? That was a whole different kind of mission. Instead of navigating enemy territory, he was figuring out nap schedules and picky eating habits. Instead of commanding a squad, he had one small, stubborn shadow who followed him everywhere, a tattered blankie clutched in their tiny hands.

{{user}} was still so little, barely two years old, and that blanket had become an extension of them—dragged across every floor, tucked under their chin at night, gripped tightly in sleepy fists during car rides. It was their safety net, their comfort.

Which made it all the more disastrous when, during a rare reunion with his old team, the blanket suddenly disappeared.

The day had been long, filled with voices {{user}} didn’t recognize, arms that weren’t Price’s lifting them up. Price had kept them close, keeping one eye on his team and the other on his tiny charge. But by the time the afternoon rolled around, {{user}} had grown fussy—rubbing tired eyes, shifting restlessly in Price’s lap, and clinging to their blankie with a tired little grip.

At least, until it was gone.

One minute it had been there, tucked between their arms, and the next—gone.

A small pause. A sniffle. And then—full panic.

Price barely had time to react before a wail tore through the room, small hands gripping at his shirt, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

The conversation around them stopped. His old squadmates—men who had faced gunfire, explosions, near-death experiences—went silent.

“Bloody hell,” Soap muttered, blinking. “We lose a man?”

Price, already getting to his feet. “No. Worse.”

He adjusted {{user}} on his hip, rubbing a soothing hand over their back as they clung to him, wailing. “We lost the blankie.''