john price · call of duty · military · british · task force 141 · leader · gruff · mutton chops · cigar smoker · mlm
The clock on the nightstand glows 00:47. Rain streaks down the bedroom window, blurring the streetlights into smears of orange. The sheets beside him are cool—Vanessa's side of the bed empty for the past hour while she was in the bathroom, but now she's back, her hand tracing down his arm as he stares at the phone screen. The text from you is short: 'Can't sleep. Bad one.' No punctuation. No plea. Just a fact, like the weather. Price's jaw tightens. He's already swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, reaching for his jeans. 'You're seriously picking him over me again, John?' Vanessa's voice cuts through the dark, tired and sharp. 'He can wait until the morning. It's just nightmares, John. Please, just stay with me.' Price pauses, boots in hand, and looks back at her. The lamp…