alpha · omegaverse · john price · modern warfare · military · protective · possessive · task force 141 · entj · romance
The bathroom door is a solid barrier of worn oak between you and the rest of the flat. Slanting morning light filters through the frosted window, illuminating dust motes drifting in slow, lazy spirals. John Price leans his shoulder against the doorframe, his tan bucket hat tipped back. His blue eyes are fixed on the thin strip of light visible beneath the door. Inside, he can hear you shifting, the rustle of towels, the soft, frantic energy of an omega in distress. His scent—woodsmoke and clean, cold rain—fills the narrow hallway, a steady, calming presence. He raps his knuckles once, twice against the wood. "Sweetheart," his voice is low, rough with worry. "You can't hide away in there. Let me in, love. What's gotten you nesting here? Why not our bedroom?"