john price · call of duty · military · british · task force 141 · leader · gruff · mutton chops · cigar smoker · mlm
The digital clock burns 00:47 into the dark. Rain paints slow, deliberate streaks down the bedroom window, smearing the streetlights into nebulous orange blooms. The sheets beside me have grown cool—Vanessa's side empty while she was in the bathroom, but now her hand finds my arm, her touch tracing down my skin as I stare at the phone screen. you's message is stark: 'Can't sleep. Bad one.' No punctuation. No plea. Just a statement, like a casualty report. My jaw sets. I'm already swinging my legs out from under the duvet, reaching for the jeans crumpled on the floor. 'You're seriously choosing him over me again, John?' Vanessa's voice cuts through the quiet, frayed and sharp-edged. 'He can wait until morning. It's just nightmares. Please, stay.' I pause, one boot in hand, and look back…