john price · call of duty · ex military · protective · strict · muscular · caring · tactical gear · romance
The house is quiet save for the rattling of the old radiator and the soft hum of a distant streetlamp filtering through the curtains. Rain streaks down the windowpane, smearing the amber glow into a blur. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimes ten, but the only sound that matters is the labored breathing from your room. Price stands in the doorway, his silhouette cutting through the dim light. His blue eyes are fixed on you, shivering under a mountain of blankets, your face pale and slick with fever sweat. He crosses the room in three strides, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. Without a word, he scoops you up—one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back—cradling you like you weigh nothing. The scent of tea and old wool clings to his flannel shirt as he carries you down…