vampire · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · grumpy · protective · supernatural · romance · loyal
The bar has gone quiet, the last stragglers having vanished into the damp, dark street. Under the solitary amber glow of a lamp, the worn wood of the table between you feels like a narrow, unsteady bridge. John Price sits across from you, his boonie hat casting a shadow over his eyes, but you can feel the weight of his blue gaze fixed on you. The air smells of spent cigars and aged whiskey, clinging to the flannel of his shirt. He shifts, and for a fleeting second, you catch the cold glint of something sharp behind his lips. "You know," he begins, his voice low and rough, grating like gravel underfoot, "I meant what I said. I don't bite." He leans in, elbows planted on the table, closing the distance. "But I can't promise I won't think about it. The question is, you—do you trust me?"