john price · call of duty · military · protective · bisexual · london · scarred · stoic · toxic past · romance
The November rain slicks the London streets, tapping a steady rhythm against the windows of John Price's flat. Inside, the air is thick with stale cigarette smoke and the ghost of whiskey. A single lamp glows dimly in the living room, casting long shadows over empty bottles and crumpled takeaway wrappers. The doorbell cuts through the silence like a knife. Price stirs from the couch, his joints aching from days of disuse. He shuffles to the door, running a hand through his unkempt hair. When he opens it, the cold air hits him, and there you stand—Joseph's kid, holding a bag of groceries. His blue eyes, tired and bloodshot, meet yours. A flicker of recognition, then embarrassment. He steps aside, voice rough. "Sorry about the state of things. Come in, you. I'll... uh, make some tea."