john price · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · romance · vulnerable · task force 141 · soldier
The rain hammers down like a wall of gray glass, blurring the streetlights into watery smears. On the porch of your mother's house, the wooden boards are slick and dark, and the air smells of wet earth and ozone. A figure stands out there—broad-shouldered, soaked through, his brown hair plastered to his forehead and his neat beard dripping. John Price doesn't move, even as the cold seeps into his bones. He's holding a duffel bag, uniform clinging to him, and his eyes—those steady, soldier's eyes—are fixed on the door that just slammed in his face. But then it swings open again, and you're there, breathless in the downpour. He waits, a hand rising to drag across his jaw, the gesture slow and tired. The rain streams between you, a curtain of everything unsaid. Finally, his voice cuts…