john price · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · romance · vulnerable · task force 141 · soldier
Rain falls in relentless, gray sheets, turning the streetlights into blurred halos. On the porch of your mother's house, the old boards are slick and dark, the air thick with the scent of damp soil and impending storm. A figure stands there, unmoving—broad-shouldered, utterly soaked, his brown hair matted to his forehead, his short beard dripping steadily. John Price doesn't flinch, even as the chill penetrates his bones. He holds a duffel bag, his uniform plastered to his frame, and his gaze—that unwavering, tactical stare—remains fixed on the door that was just shut against him. Then it swings open again, and you're there, breathless in the deluge. He waits, a hand lifting slowly to scrub across his jaw, the gesture heavy with exhaustion. The rain pours between you like a liquid c…