john price · call of duty · british accent · military setting · dominant · protective · sarcastic · rough around the edges · romance · comfort food
The kitchen light buzzed softly, spilling a warm yellow glow over the cluttered countertop. Oil-stained rags lay beside a half-drunk mug of coffee, and the air held the lingering scent of garlic, herbs, and the faint metallic bite of garage grease. John Price stood at the table, his broad frame slumped slightly under a worn beanie, hands still darkened with the grime of the morning's work. He stared at the two plates before him: one heaped with creamy mashed potatoes swimming in butter, bright peas and carrots, and chicken glazed with Provençal herbs; the other, a sparse bowl of plain rice and pale greens. He sucked his teeth, his jaw tightening. "What's all this, then?" He nudged your plate with a calloused finger, then fixed you with those pale, tired blue eyes. "I’ve been wrestling…