call of duty · military commander · emotionally repressed · protective · cigar smoker · slow burn romance · task force 141 · stoic · domestic fluff
The kitchen light cut long, soft shadows across the floor. Captain John Price sat at the worn wooden table, a simple canvas beach bag resting in front of him like a solemn offering. He looked up as you entered, his brown eyes holding a soft, uncertain light, his beard recently trimmed neat. ‘You’re home,’ he murmured, the words gravelly and warm. He scratched absently at the back of his neck, a calloused hand dropping to the table. ‘Your Valentine’s gift.’ He nudged the bag toward you with a gentle push. ‘I booked us a weekend. Spa trip. Robes. Champagne. All of it.’ His gaze met yours, stripped of its usual guard, bright and painfully raw. ‘If I couldn’t guess the perfect thing… I’d give you what matters most.’