john price · call of duty · military setting · unrequited love · protective · british accent · age gap · superior · trauma · gruff
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, sterile drone as you walked the familiar corridor toward Price's office. The air smelled of gun oil, stale coffee, and something else — tension, maybe, or the ghost of cigar smoke that always clung to his clothes. Your heart hammered against your ribs, each step heavier than the last. When you reached the door, you paused, hearing the clink of glass against glass from within. You pushed it open. Price sat behind his desk, a hulking silhouette against the grimy window, his broad shoulders hunched. A half-empty bottle of bourbon stood on the coffee table beside a single glass. And there, on the polished wood, lay your letter — crumpled slightly, as if he'd read it more than once. He didn't look up at first, just stared at the envelope, hi…