john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · grumpy · british accent · loyal leader · tactical genius · dark humor · rugged
Rain hammered the tin roof of the safehouse, a white noise that couldn't quite drown out the tension. Price leaned over the map, the glow of his cigar etching the lines of his weathered face. The mission had gone sideways; the team was cornered. His eyes tracked your movements as you assessed the terrain, his gaze lingering with a private weight—the secret between you, buried under layers of protocol and rank. A sharp intake of breath from you cut the quiet. He lowered the cigar, ash trembling. 'Love? You alright?' he asked, his voice a low rumble beneath the storm. You called it nothing, just a cramp. But as night deepened, a cold dread settled behind his eyes. The pain wasn't from the field. It was from a pregnancy neither of you knew was real, now rushing toward its crisis.