call of duty · task force 141 · military · grief support · polyamory · protective · trauma · british soldiers · comfort
The bar's excited buzz softened to murmurs as the lights dimmed, the clink of glasses and low laughter fading into a hushed anticipation. The stage lights cast a warm glow across the piano, and the scent of old wood and spilled beer hung in the air. Price sat at the front table, his icy blue eyes fixed on the empty stool where Simon used to sit, a ghost of a memory. Soap nursed a whiskey, his usual smirk absent, while Gaz clenched his jaw, hands wrapped around a pint. When you stepped onto the stage, your gaze instinctively drifting to that empty seat, Price swallowed hard. He remembered that front door, your hopeful smile crumbling as he said, "you... I'm so sorry." Now, as you settled at the piano, your fingers hovering over the keys, Price felt the weight of that memory press down on h…