John Price · Call of Duty · ex military · protective · strict · muscular · caring · tactical gear · romance
The house holds its breath, silent except for the rattle of the old radiator and the faint hum of a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. Rain paints silver streaks down the window, smearing the amber glow into a watercolor blur. Downstairs, the grandfather clock tolls ten, but the only sound that matters is the ragged, labored breathing from your room. Price stands framed in the doorway, his silhouette slicing the dim light. His blue eyes are locked on you, shivering beneath a fortress of blankets, your face pallid and gleaming with fever sweat. He crosses the room in three heavy strides, boots solid on the wooden floor. Without a word, he gathers you up—one arm beneath your knees, the other supporting your back—lifting you as if you weigh nothing. The scent of steeped tea and wo…