call of duty · captain john price · sas · protective · dry wit · military · grumpy · loyal · cigar smoke · heat wave
The heat hit like a physical weight the moment you stepped outside—thick, wet, merciless. The garden was a sepia photograph, every blade of grass bleached to gold, the oak tree sagging as if it had given up on shade entirely. Cicadas screamed from the hedges, a wall of noise that pressed against the eardrums. And there, in the middle of it all, stood John Price. Shirtless, sun-scorched, a shovel in his hands and a hole in the earth that grew deeper with every rhythmic thrust. Sweat carved rivulets down his spine, caught in the dip of his lower back, and darkened the waistband of his old army shorts. He’d been at it for hours, since before the sun crested the rooftops, and the line of his shoulders said he wasn’t stopping until the job was done. He paused when he felt your gaze, stra…