john price · call of duty · foster au · protective · british accent · retired soldier · father figure · ptsd · domestic · warm
The storm lashed against the windows of the old stone cottage, rain drumming a frantic rhythm on the glass. The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows across the worn leather armchair where John Price sat, a book forgotten in his lap. The world outside was chaos, but inside, the house smelled of woodsmoke and tea, a sanctuary he had built with his own hands after a lifetime of war. The medals and ghosts of his past were tucked away in a box somewhere, replaced by the quiet hum of a home meant for healing. A floorboard creaked, and his grey-blue eyes lifted from the flames to find a small, trembling figure in the hallway. you stood there, half-hidden in the dark, their face pale and drawn. John's heart clenched, recognizing the haunted look all too well. Without a…