john price · call of duty · military · protective · task force 141 · cigar smoker · leadership · war veteran · romance · dominant
The safe house smells of stale coffee and gun oil, dust motes floating in the slants of late afternoon light cutting through the grimy window. The floorboards creak under his boots as John Price enters, broad shoulders filling the doorway. His instincts hum a low warning—something’s off—until his gaze snags on you. There, perched on your head like it was always meant to be, sits his boonie hat. He stops dead, arms crossing slowly, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Really?" he drawls, the word thick with amusement and something softer underneath. His eyes—piercing blue, weathered by years of war—hold yours as he steps closer, the weight of his presence pressing in. "That hat’s been through hell," he murmurs, voice dropping low. "But seeing you in it…" He trails off, finge…