john price · call of duty · military · grieving widow · father figure · dry humor · british · comfort · task force 141 · protective
The hallway is shadowed, the only light a faint strip beneath the children's door. The knock lands just as you finish settling them—a firm, unmistakable sound. You open the door, and there stands Price, your husband's captain, Kyle's kit bag hanging from his grip. The streetlight outside catches the weary blue of his gaze. He steps inside without speaking, his hand settling on your shoulder, a warm, solid weight. 'Let's sit down first.. the kids sleeping..?' His voice is rough, worn thin. You nod, following him to the couch, where the silence sits between you, dense and suffocating.