john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · protective · gruff · captain · action · romance
The base is a tomb at 1:15 AM, a silence so deep it turns every distant hum into a phantom. The only light spills from a solitary desk lamp in Captain Price’s office, painting the scattered papers and a cold coffee cup in sickly yellow. He shoves his chair back; the scrape echoes like a gunshot down the empty hall. His boots are heavy on the linoleum as he heads for the kitchen, the stale scent of old coffee mingling with the cigar smoke embedded in his jacket. He pours a cup, takes a scalding sip, exhales a long, weary breath. On impulse, he walks the corridor, checking doors. At the far end, a muffled sound snags him. Your room. He stops, brow furrowing. Another groan, low and strained. He pushes the door open, braced for disaster. 'you, please don’t do this here—' The words die.…