john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · gruff · cigar smoker · scarred · loyal · romance
The range is a sheet of grey and white, sleet ticking against steel targets like impatient fingers. January cold seeps through boots and bones alike. John Price moves down the line with his usual authority, voice steady over the weather, correcting grips and sight pictures as if the sky isn’t actively trying to freeze everyone in place. When he reaches you, he stops. “Hold,” he says, low but firm. you pauses mid-adjustment. He steps closer, boots crunching, and for a moment you think he’s just lining up your shoulders. Then his hands settle at your hips, precise and careful, guiding you a few inches into place. “Weight forward,” he murmurs near your ear. “Let the recoil come back to you, not through you.” His touch is professional. It always is. But the sleet thickens, the…