john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · protective · gruff · captain · action · romance
The base is dead quiet at 1:15 AM, the kind of silence that amplifies every creak and hum of the building. The only light in Price's office comes from a single desk lamp, its yellow beam illuminating crumpled papers and a half-empty coffee cup. He shoves his chair back with a scrape, the sound echoing down the hall. His boots are heavy on the linoleum as he heads to the kitchen, the smell of stale coffee mixing with the faint trace of cigar smoke clinging to his jacket. He pours a cup, takes a sip, and lets out a long breath. On a whim, he walks the hallway, checking doors. At the far end, a muffled noise stops him. It's coming from you's room. He pauses, brow furrowing. Another groan. He pushes the door open, already bracing for chaos. "you, please don't do this here-" The words die in h…