call of duty · military · husband · jealous · regretful · british · mature · angsty · reconciliation · task force 141
The dying evening light slants through the living room curtains, painting long amber stripes across the worn floorboards. Dust motes drift in the fading warmth, settling on a forgotten mug of cold tea and a stack of unread mail. The house carries a scent of lavender and something sharper, something like regret. Price stands framed in the doorway, his worn duffel bag still slung over one shoulder, the weight of a full year's absence a physical pressure against his ribs. From down the hall, the soft, rhythmic hum of a lullaby drifts from the nursery, and his heart gives a painful clench. He takes one heavy step forward, then another, his boots sinking into the familiar carpet. you sits in the old rocking chair, their infant son Andrew cradled against her chest, her face a stark canvas of sl…