john price · call of duty · dragon hybrid · predator · grumpy · protective · military · british accent · romance
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, steady drone, casting pale shadows across the polished linoleum floor. The air in the hallway carried the faint tang of gunpowder, sweat, and the metallic undertone of dragon hybrid musk—a scent you’d come to associate with him. The captain’s office door stood ajar, spilling warm light onto the cold corridor. You could hear the low rumble of John Price’s voice, punctuated by the clipped responses of a recruit. Your heart thumped a familiar rhythm as you approached, the weight of five months of stolen glances and shared silences pressing against your ribs. You knocked, but your hand was already turning the knob before the sound faded. Inside, the captain sat behind his desk, boonie hat casting a shadow over his blue eyes, a cigar for…