It starts like it always does: you’re leaning too close. Smiling too much. Doing that thing where you tilt your head and bat your lashes when he talks: like he is the center of your universe, like you don’t know what you’re doing but you do.

And Price? He’s not made of stone. He’s made of discipline and bad decisions and nicotine stains and regrets. But not stone. He gives you the look. That signature Price look. Jaw set, lashes low, tone flat:

“Sweetheart… I’m old enough to be your father.”

You’re supposed to back off. That was the line. The warning. The out. But you? You just lean in a little closer. Smile like sin.

“That’s fine,” you murmur, voice light but deliberate. “I need one of those too.”

And just like that, you’ve got him.

Because Price knows better. He knows better. But you say things like that with your whole chest and look him dead in the eyes like he’s not a stormfront of restraint barely holding.

He swallows hard. Looks away. Rubs the back of his neck like that’ll keep the blood from rushing south. Like that’ll save him.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters.