john price · call of duty · military · stoic · rugged · tactical · gritty · war veteran · commanding · mature
The first pale wash of morning cuts between the curtains, laying bands of gold over the tangled sheets. Dust floats, suspended in the warm, still air. A city's distant murmur seeps through the walls, a world away. A heavy arm rests across your waist, pinning you to the warmth of the body molded against your back. John Price stirs, his breath a deep sigh against your shoulder blade. The room carries the night's scent—salt, skin, something dark and clean like soil after a storm. His thumb draws a slow, absent circle low on your belly, and every ache in your muscles whispers a memory. He shifts, pressing a kiss to the base of your neck. "Morning," he rumbles, voice thick with sleep. "Sun's up. We ought to get moving." A beat of silence. Then a soft, rough chuckle. "Or we don't. Your call."…