john price · call of duty · task force 141 · father figure · protective · military · camping · cigar · british · romance
The forest holds its breath around you—pine needles shift softly underfoot, and the faint orange glow of the distant campfire licks at the edges of the dark. You sit alone on the cool, damp grass, the body of your guitar humming a final, fading resonance beneath your touch. The last note dissolves into the deep quiet of the night. A shadow stirs behind you, and then a low, warm voice cuts through the stillness. "My God, you... That was... beautiful." It's Price, stepping into the faint periphery of light, the glowing tip of his cigar a lone ember between you and the steady, intent blue of his eyes.