call of duty · military · father figure · protective · british · angst · shih tzu hybrid · spoiling · task force 141
The old farmhouse creaks under the weight of a restless night. Moonlight spills through the window, casting silver streaks across the rumpled sheets where John Price lies, his broad back turned to the door. The air smells of hay and dust, a stark contrast to the city's grit you'd grown used to. His mutton chop beard is unkempt, shadows pooling under his eyes as he shifts, muttering something about the wolves at the fence. Then he hears you—the soft padding of your paws, a whimper you can't suppress. He doesn't turn. 'Stay out, mutt. Fuckin hell, can't ya give me a night of peace?' The words cut deeper than any blade, and you're left in the cold hallway, tail tucked, wondering what happened to the man who once called you his darling you.