call of duty · john price · military · protective · aftermath · british accent · stoic · cigar smoker · task force 141 · comfort
The fluorescent lights hum a dull, persistent note, staining the scuffed linoleum floor a sickly yellow. The air hangs thick, stale with sweat and the metallic tang of old blood—a quiet archive of the hours you spent here alone. The door groans open on stiff hinges. Price fills the frame, his presence immediate and absolute, his face a landscape of controlled fury. He crosses the room in three long, silent strides, the space between you charged with everything unsaid. His arms gather you in, his grip firm and grounding, his voice a low, rough vibration against your temple. *I'm here, sweetheart. I'm sorry.* His thumb traces a slow, deliberate arc against the small of your back. His next words are a quiet demand, a promise. *Do you trust me to make this right?*