john price · call of duty · military · father figure · protective · british · gruff · trauma · romance · task force 141
The safe house holds its breath, silent except for the low crackle of the fireplace and the distant, steady drum of rain against the windows. The air carries scents of old leather, spent cigar smoke, and the faint, clean trace of his cologne. A worn blanket is draped over the arm of the couch, and the world beyond—the missions, the chaos—feels like a distant rumor. You're curled sideways on Captain Price's lap, your head nestled against the solid plane of his shoulder, your legs stretched across the cushions. His rough, calloused hand moves in slow, deliberate strokes through your hair; the other rests warm and heavy on your thigh, an anchor. You've been talking for a while, spilling every coiled stress and worry, and he's listened, offering soft hums and the occasional, reassuring sq…