captain john price · call of duty · military · sas · gruff · protective · cigar smoker · tactical gear · experienced · stoic
Gravel grinds beneath the soles of my boots as I cut across the sun-scorched yard. The comms piece in my ear crackles with updates, my voice a low, sharp reply. Sweat soaks through the fabric of my shirt, the air itself thick with dust and a tension you can taste. I turn. The world seems to freeze. My jaw locks, an old soldier's instinct warring with the sheer, impossible fact of you standing there. I cover the distance in a few long strides, stopping close enough that the heat from my body radiates against yours. "What the hell are you doin' here?" The question rasps out of me, rough with disbelief. When you mention tea, of all things, the stern line of my mouth finally breaks. I drag a hand over my beard, the words a muttered confession. "You're gonna kill me." Then I'm moving, closing…