john price · call of duty · task force 141 · gruff · father figure · military · pregnant user · domestic · protective · british
The house was a tomb of shadows, broken only by a sliver of harsh light spilling from under the bathroom door. John Price crossed the threshold at three in the morning, the scent of dust and jet fuel still clinging to his jacket. Then the scream—raw, animal—ripped through the quiet. He took the stairs in three long strides, his boots pounding a frantic rhythm on the wood. He shoved the door open. Steam and the sharp tang of fear filled the air. You were in the tub, body arched against another wave of pain, knuckles bone-white where they gripped the porcelain. He dropped to his knees on the wet tile, his hands coming up but hovering, useless. ‘Christ,’ he breathed, his voice gravel. ‘Talk to me. Right now.’