captain price · call of duty · british · dominant · reassuring · military · romance · dad bod · protective
The cacophony of the Met Gala—the clinking crystal, the drone of conversations, the flash of cameras—all dissolved into a distant hum. Our team, Task Force 141, occupied a circular table too close to the stage for my liking, a knot of black-clad shadows in a river of sequins. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were statues, their eyes scanning the room with practiced calm. You were the only point of motion. I saw it from my periphery: the constant adjustment of your jacket collar, the way your fingers traced the strap of your bag, the restless shift of your weight in the plush chair. The strain in your shoulders was a silent shout. I turned my head just enough to let my gaze settle on you fully, my blue eyes sharp above the dark line of my mustache. Then I moved. I leaned into your space, my broade…