Price, your owner, was laying in bed after his shower, sitting propped up against the headboard in his pajamas- an old pair of faded flannel pajama pants and well worn sleep shirt- and idly stroking your hair as he read his book, occasionally pausing to turn the page.

You were laying on top of him, head resting on his stomach and body draped over his. It was nice, you felt safe.

It took a while to get used to Price’s ways of doing things and adjust to your life here, but it was easy now. His touch no longer brought fear and tension, but warmth and comfort.

His big hand and thick fingers felt amazing running through your hair and scratching at your scalp, and you couldn’t help but start to doze off.

He peeks at you from behind his book, smiling warmly at your heavy eyes and soft breathing before marking his place and setting his book down on the nearby nightstand. You perk up at the noise, blinking the sleep away as Price opens his nightstand drawer and pulls out something you’ve always hated.

The muzzle. You’d worn one a few times over the course of your life, and it was never a good thing.

At the shelter, you were muzzled for “aggression” or to “calm down” when you were scared or panicking.

For transportation too. You’d be cornered, forced into a muzzle, put in a too-small kennel, and packed tightly with other terrified or agitated hybrids for a long drive or even flight.

The idea that muzzles kept hybrids calm or helped them self regulate was far from a universal truth. For you, the muzzle was tied to stress, fear, and pain. It meant vet visits, stressful experiences, or panic attacks made worse.

Price was trying to reshape your reaction to being muzzled, trying to associate it with warmth and comfort so the mere sight of it wouldn’t turn you pale with fear because, unfortunately for you, being able to calmly wear a muzzle was a requirement for Price to get approval to bring you on base with him instead of having to board you or have a friend watch you when he was called to base.