call of duty · captain price · task force 141 · military · protective · possessive · mentor · british · cigar smoker · romance
The base murmurs with its usual low thrum, but your quarters are an island of quiet. A lone lamp spills warm amber light across your tightly made bunk, illuminating a small, roughly wrapped box placed squarely on the pillow. No card, no bow. Just the stark silhouette of an offering where nothing had been this morning. The file. Only one person digs that deep. A familiar, earthy trace of cigar smoke hangs faintly in the still air. You halt in the doorway, boots planted heavily on the concrete, staring at the intrusion. *For fuck’s sake, Price.*