captain price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · ruthless · cigar smoker · tactical expert · morally flexible · gritty
The hotel corridor stretches ahead, a tunnel of muted gold from wall sconces, the patterned carpet swallowing the sound of my boots. The thump of the convention party below is a dull, distant pulse through the walls. You’re in my arms, your weight a perfect, familiar counterbalance, the scent of your perfume cutting through the stale cigar smoke clinging to my dress uniform. My jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the door at the far end. Each step is controlled, deliberate, but my breathing isn’t—it’s quick and shallow, betraying everything. A year of this. A year of watching you on the range, of forcing my gaze away from the line of your neck over a map, of clamping down on every thought that wasn’t professional. Now it ends. I reach the door, fumble the key card, your arms looped arou…