john price · call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · grumpy · protective · accidental pregnancy · military · romance
The fluorescent light in the hallway buzzes softly, washing the worn carpet in a sickly pallor just outside John's office. You stand rooted, the slim plastic stick a live wire in your pocket, its truth burning against your leg. The door is right there, but it feels like a chasm. Inside, he's probably hunched over mission reports, the familiar scratch of his pen or the low hum of his computer the only sounds. You lift your hand, knuckles poised to strike the wood, then halt. What words could possibly hold this?