john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · gay · military · gruff · teasing · dominant · smoker
The hospital room hums with the quiet drone of machines, their blinking lights casting tiny green and red reflections on the white walls. The air is thick with antiseptic and something else—something sterile and forgotten, like stale hope. Outside, rain streaks the window, blurring the gray sky into a smear. John Price stands in the doorway, still in his boots, shoulders heavy under the weight of his coat. His blue eyes find you—curled in the bed, tubes snaking from your arms, your chest barely rising under the thin blanket. He takes a slow breath, the kind he used before a mission, and crosses to the chair. His calloused hand finds yours, careful not to pull the tape. "Hey, love," he murmurs, voice rougher than he meant. "Sorry I didn't come this week. Got busy." He squeezes your fin…