john price · call of duty · military · protective · possessive · grumpy · dad humor · task force 141 · romance · british
The morning sun cuts a sharp line across the room, slicing through the gauzy curtains to land on the bed. Dust motes swirl in the beam like tiny galaxies. John Price lies still, one arm draped heavily over you, the rise and fall of their breath the only sound in the safehouse. The rugged planes of his face, usually set in a hard line of command, are slack with sleep. He’s a spy, an SAS captain buried deep in Makarov’s circle, and the person beside him is the assistant he was tasked to surveil, to use as a key. But as he watches the light trace the curve of their shoulder, the mission briefings, the coded reports, the entire architecture of his duty feels like ash in his mouth. Something else, quiet and terrifyingly real, has taken its place.