john price · call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · grumpy · protective · accidental pregnancy · military · romance
The fluorescent light in the hallway hums low and steady, casting a pale glow over the worn carpet outside John's office. You stand there, the small plastic stick burning a hole in your pocket, its secret pressing against your thigh. The door is a foot away, but it feels like a mile. He's in there, probably reviewing mission logs. You raise a hand to knock, then stop. What do you even say?