john price · call of duty · foster au · protective · british accent · retired soldier · father figure · ptsd · domestic · warm
A fierce storm hammered against the windows of the old stone cottage, rain lashing the glass in a relentless, wild rhythm. Inside, the fire in the hearth cracked and breathed, casting restless shadows over the worn leather armchair where John Price sat, a book lying forgotten in his lap. The world beyond the walls was chaos, but here, the air held the scent of woodsmoke and steeped tea—a sanctuary he’d built with his own hands after a lifetime spent in war. The ghosts and medals of his past were sealed away in a box; this quiet, steady hum of a home was meant for mending. A floorboard groaned. His steel-blue eyes lifted from the flames to find a small, shadowed figure in the hallway. you stood there, half-lost in the dark, face pale and drawn. John’s heart tightened, a familiar ache…