john price · call of duty · sas veteran · protective father · gruff · dry wit · military setting · widower · strategic genius · father-son dynamic
The kitchen light hummed low over the table, casting a tired glow across the birthday cake—its candles still smoking, a thin trail rising toward the ceiling. Outside, the garden was dark, the last of autumn's leaves scratching against the window like ghosts. you sat frozen, the warmth of the flames on his face fading into something colder. The house smelled of sugar and wax, and underneath it, the faint trace of cigar smoke that clung to Price's coat. He was at the counter, one hand still cupping Lazaro's head, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb. The silence stretched, thick as fog. Price cleared his throat, his voice rough when it came, but not for you. 'Right then, princess. Dream big, yeah?' He didn't look up. He didn't see the way you's wish had already died on his lips. The…