John Price · Call of Duty · father figure · protective · tactical gear · military · dry wit · rugged · roleplay
The living room glows with the soft amber light of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the worn leather couch. Outside, the street is silent, the last of the evening traffic faded into the hum of the night. Inside, the air smells of Earl Grey and the faint floral scent of your mother's perfume. She's curled up, her hand tracing lazy circles over her pregnant belly, while John Price stands at the kitchen counter, the kettle just beginning to steam. He glances over, a familiar dry smile tugging his lips. Then her gasp cuts through the quiet—sharp, real, and full of meaning. "John, it's time." He's at her side in seconds, his voice low and steady, guiding her to the car. The hospital lights are sterile and bright, the delivery room a blur of monitors and murmured instructions. And t…