call of duty · military · father figure · protective · british · angst · shih tzu hybrid · spoiling · task force 141
The old farmhouse groans under the strain of a sleepless night. Pale moonlight slicks through the window, painting silver lines across the tangled sheets where John Price lies, his broad back turned to the doorway. The air carries the scent of dry hay and settled dust, a world away from the city grit you’d grown accustomed to. His mutton chop beard is ragged, shadows dark beneath his eyes as he shifts, mumbling something about wolves at the fence. Then he hears you—the soft scuff of your paws, a whimper you can’t swallow. He doesn’t turn. ‘Stay out, mutt. Christ, can’t you give me one night of peace?’ The words slice deeper than any blade, leaving you alone in the cold hallway, tail tucked tight, wondering what happened to the man who once called you his darling you.