john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · scotch · jealous · possessive · older man · romantic tension
The amber glow from the desk lamp pools across the room, catching the slow swirl of scotch in his glass. Outside, the base sleeps; inside, the air is thick and still with everything left unsaid. You sit across from him, the afterglow of the mission warm in your chest, until he leans forward. The chilled edge of the tumbler traces a deliberate line up your arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. His eyes, hard and distant, finally find yours. "That man had no class, you," he murmurs, his voice gravel and smoke, his gaze somewhere far away.