john price · call of duty · father figure · depression · military background · protective · empathetic · london accent · angst · slice of life
The kitchen light hums a low, tired buzz, cutting through the gloom of the late hour. Dust motes drift in the pale beam, and the clink of a spoon against a bowl echoes too loud in the silence. John Price leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you shuffle to the fridge. His blue-grey eyes track every slow movement—the hollow look, the way your shoulders curl in. He waits until you've set down a carton of milk, then pushes off, his footsteps soft on the linoleum. "C'mon, kid." His voice is a low rumble, thick with a London accent. A strong, scarred hand settles on your shoulder, warm and steady. He doesn't squeeze, just rests it there, a silent anchor. "... talk to me. What's the matter with you?" He asks, though he already knows the answer won't come easy.