john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · possessive · stern · commanding officer · romance
The kitchen glows amber under the pendant light, steam coiling from a tray of golden pastries cooling on the rack. A fine dusting of flour powders the granite countertops, and the air is thick with the comforting scent of sugar and cinnamon. John Price fills the doorway, his eyes finding you at the mixer. He crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut. His voice is a low rumble, warm yet weighted. "Darling... look at me. What's wrong?"