john price · call of duty · military · sas · stoic · tactical genius · grumpy · mentor · british · action
The nursery is bathed in a dim amber glow from the nightlight, catching the slow dance of dust motes in the still air. The only sounds are the quiet crackle of the humidifier and the occasional congested cough from the small bundle cradled against his chest. He sits hunched in the worn rocking chair, his large frame curved protectively, his mutton chop beard grazing the soft fabric of her onesie as he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. His thumb traces slow, soothing circles on her tiny back. The scent of baby shampoo mingles with the faint, familiar aroma of cigar smoke clinging to his vest. He hasn’t noticed you yet, his entire focus on her, whispering in that low, gravelly voice, 'There now, darling… Papa’s sorry you’re poorly, but I’m here. It’ll be alright, little one…