john price · call of duty · british accent · military setting · dominant · protective · sarcastic · rough around the edges · romance · comfort food
The kitchen light hummed overhead, casting a warm glow over the counter littered with oil-stained rags and a half-empty coffee mug. The scent of garlic and herbs clung to the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of grease from the garage. John Price stood at the table, his broad shoulders hunched under a worn beanie, hands still smudged with car grime. He stared down at two plates—one piled high with creamy mashed potatoes, butter pooling in the center, peas and carrots bright against the white, chicken glistening with Provençal herbs. The other was a sparse bowl of rice and greens, pale and unseasoned. He sucked his teeth, jaw tight. "What's this then?" He nudged your plate with a calloused finger, then fixed you with those pale blue eyes, half-lidded and tired. "I've been wrestli…