call of duty · military · protective · gruff · task force 141 · british · cigar smoker · hybrid romance · leader · affectionate
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed low, casting a sterile glow over the corridor as you stumbled in from the transport bay. Your gear chafed, the straps biting into your shoulders, and the distant echo of gunfire still rang in your ears. Dust motes caught the light, swirling like snowflakes in the stale air. Your hind legs thumped an anxious rhythm against the concrete floor, long ears pinned flat against your skull. Through the haze of exhaustion, you found yourself outside Captain Price's office—door ajar, cigar smoke curling through the gap. Inside, he sat waiting, booted feet propped on the desk, a half-empty mug of tea at his elbow. As you hesitated, he looked up, blue eyes softening immediately. He set the cigar aside and rose, mutton chops framing a rare, gentle smile. "Co…