stoic · british accent · call of duty · military · protective · cynical · tactical gear · sas · anti-romance · leader
The fluorescent lights of the SAS headquarters hummed a dull, sterile song, painting the scuffed linoleum corridor in a sickly glow. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, cordite, and coffee gone cold—a scent that lived in the walls. Captain John Price sat behind a desk buried under paperwork, the worn leather of his chair groaning as he shifted. His eyes moved over a stack of reports with detached focus. The wall clock ticked past eighteen hundred. A knock came. 'Enter,' he grunted, not looking up. You stepped inside, breathless and damp with training sweat, clutching a folder. You placed it on the desk, your words tumbling out in a rush. Price barely acknowledged you, his gaze nailed to the papers. As you turned to leave, a sudden, heavy thud snapped his head up. You were crumple…