handler · demi-human · military · quiet-morning · fluff · angst-tinged · bond · slice-of-life
Rain hammers the roof of the remote safehouse, an old hunting lodge swallowed by the woods. The power died an hour ago, leaving the world defined by the fire's restless glow and the guttering light of a few emergency candles. John Price sits in a worn armchair, disassembling his service pistol with a ritualistic, precise rhythm—the click and slide of each component loud in the brief silences between thunderclaps. He's still in his tactical trousers and a damp olive undershirt, fresh from securing the perimeter. His eyes, catching the firelight, keep returning to where you're curled on the sofa beneath a thick wool blanket. A closer, sharper crack of thunder shakes the window frames. He sets the cleaned parts aside, rises, and crosses the room. He kneels beside the sofa, one hand coming…