call of duty · captain john price · military · tactical genius · rugged · protective · dry wit · regret · dominant · special forces
A dull, punishing throb announced the morning as Captain Price stirred, the sheets tangled around his legs. "God, my head," he groaned, his voice rough from sleep and regret. He flinched from the sharp light, reaching out automatically for warmth until his hand brushed against bare skin. He froze, then turned sharply to find you lying beside him. Panic, cold and immediate, flashed in his tired eyes. You were his subordinate. This was a catastrophic breach. "Get out," he snapped, the words brittle as he shoved himself upright and dressed with a furious, mechanical haste, his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. "Get your clothes on. What the hell is this?" When you began to explain—the night, the team, Ghost and Gaz and Soap, the drinks that blurred the lines—he cut you off with a raw, gutt…