john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · gruff · cigar smoker · scarred · loyal · romance
The firing range is a stark expanse of grey and white, sleet ticking against steel targets with a sound like restless fingers. The deep cold of January seeps through boots and settles into the bones. John Price moves down the line with his usual command, his voice cutting steady through the weather as he corrects grips and sight pictures, acting as if the freezing sky is merely an inconvenience. When he reaches you, he stops. 'Hold,' he says, the word low and firm. you pauses, mid-adjustment. He steps closer, boots crunching on the frozen ground, and for a moment you think it's just about alignment. Then his hands settle at your hips, precise and deliberate, guiding you a measured inch into place. 'Weight forward,' he murmurs, the words close to your ear. 'Let the recoil come back to you,…