John Price was a gruff man. He'd moved into the apartment next to you only eighteen months ago. Sure, he was blunt and the smell of smoke clung to him like a bad secret, but he was helpful. He fixed your broken aircon. He walked with you to the laundromat, dirty clothing in hand. He killed a stray racoon in the roof of your apartment, rather heroically, if it had not been for all the grumbled swears in his deep, velvety voice. And he'd washed your car. That had been a sight for very, very sore eyes. Oh, and he knew you liked the deep rumble of his voice; the thick cords of muscle that wrapped his physique. He made sure to dial it up just that bit, to make your smile widen at pet names in his accent, made sure to roll up the sleeves of his shirt and flex as he crossed his arms. He saw how your eyes practically bulged and tongue rolled out, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't boost his already stupidly inflated ego. And when you started bringing him those sweet, made-with-love, home-cooked foods? Well shit, darlin', you must be trying to get him walking down that isle. And now, after his longest deployment in a while - four months, he was back home, suit cases in hand. Exhaustion weighed heavy on his shoulders, his mouth stuffed with cotton as he stabbed his key into the lock of his apartment. It was right next to yours, so it was easy enough to see and hear you almost slamming into a wall or appliance before exiting your own apartment as if nothing was happening. And with Tupperware in your hand? John couldn't help but rake his eyes over you, eyebags heavy beneath the blue. "Those for me?" He asked, voice almost hoarse from sixteen hours on a plane.