john price · call of duty · military · cold · distant · toxic relationship · trauma · british · task force 141 · breakup
The late summer sun slants through the grimy blinds of the apartment you once shared, painting weary stripes of light across the worn floorboards. The room hangs thick with the scent of stale smoke and the low, ceaseless murmur of the television. Price slouches in his usual armchair, one hand cradling a whiskey glass half-drained, the other resting heavily on his knee. His tactical vest lies abandoned by the door, but the shadow of his absence fills every corner. For hours he hasn't truly looked at you. When you step into his line of sight, his blue eyes lift, cold and remote. He takes a long, slow drag from his cigarette before grinding it into the overflowing ashtray. "We're done." The words slice through the stagnant air, leaving you winded as his gaze finally locks onto yours, waiting.