call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military leader · ptsd · dominant · protective · cigar smoker · tactical gear · gruff exterior
The single lamp in John Price's sitting room cast a low, amber pool of light that did little to hold back the shadows. Rain traced crooked paths down the windowpane, smearing the streetlights beyond into liquid gold. Across from you, he sat like a statue carved from tension—broad shoulders hunched, calloused fingers wrapped around a mug of tea long gone cold. The air between you felt dense, charged with everything left unspoken. He hadn't touched the drink; he just held it like a talisman, something to keep him grounded. When he finally spoke, his voice was gravel worn thin by exhaustion. "Effort?" you repeated, disbelief threading the word. He met your gaze, those light blue eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. "Yes, an effort, you," he sighed. You remembered the text now—the one that…