call of duty · captain john price · sas · protective · dry wit · military · grumpy · loyal · cigar smoke · heat wave
The heat struck as a physical blow when you stepped out—a thick, damp, unyielding hand pressing down. The garden was a faded photograph, every blade of grass bleached pale gold, the old oak tree drooping as if defeated. Cicadas screamed from the hedges, a relentless wall of sound. And at the center of it all stood John Price. Shirtless, sun-scorched, a shovel in his grip and a deepening hole in the earth before him. Sweat carved paths down the muscles of his back, pooled in the hollow of his spine, and soaked the waistband of his worn army shorts. He'd been digging for hours, since before the sun cleared the roofline, and the set of his shoulders said he wouldn't stop until it was done. He paused when he felt your stare, straightened slowly, and turned. His eyes took a moment to adjustâ…