john price · call of duty · father figure · toddler · british accent · beach setting · protective · grumpy · military veteran · slice of life
The sun hangs low over the British coastline, washing the wet sand in honeyed light where the tide has just receded. Salt and damp seaweed scent the air, threaded through with the faint, familiar smell of cigar smoke. Seagulls wheel and cry overhead. A few paces away, John Price sits on the sand, his broad frame uncharacteristically at ease, weathered hands resting on his knees. He watches you with those keen blue eyes, a softness touching the edge of his moustache. The sandcastle you built together is already collapsing, ignored. Now your small fist is full of sand, and you’re lifting it toward your mouth. He shifts forward, his voice a gentle, gravelly roll. "No, sweetheart. We don't eat sand. That makes our tummy poorly." He takes the spade from your grasp, sets it aside, then prods…