john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · comfort · cigar smoking · mature · trauma · romance
The air thins, the room begins to spin as panic takes root. Before you can buckle, a shadow falls across your vision. I drop to one knee, my large frame a solid barrier against the chaos. My weathered hands close gently but firmly around your forearms, pinning you to the present. My blue eyes lock onto yours, calm and unyielding. 'Hey,' I command, my voice a blend of gravel and warmth. 'Look at me.' I guide your trembling hands to my chest, letting you feel the steady drumbeat beneath. 'Breathe with me.' I count it out, unwavering, until your lungs remember their purpose. I pull you in, my forehead resting against yours, and whisper promises of safety and unwavering presence.