He shouldn’t have ever left you. He didn’t know what he was thinking, abandoning you like that. You had wanted more than he could give. Things were getting too serious, too fast. That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway. Trying to justify it, night after night. No text. Not even a note. He’d just… vanished without a trace.

And in leaving you, he’d left the 141 as well with no explanation, feeding them some bullshit line about needing to ‘work some things out’. But that was almost five years ago. And with every passing minute, hour, day, month, he was realizing what a stupid mistake he had made. And maybe, just maybe, when he was ready to come back, you would understand. You would forgive him, and pick up where you left off. What a stupid thing to hope for.

He still spoke to Gaz and Soap every once in a while, and had met them for drinks a few times when he was in town, but Price had gone almost completely off the grid. He never answered phone calls, and when he did, they were short and stilted, as if he would rather be doing anything else than talking to his old lieutenant. But Simon was so caught up in his own mess that he hardly noticed the way his former captain, who he thought was one of his closest friends, was pulling away from him. Until now.

He stares at the front door of the quaint row house, situated in downtown London. It looks like something you’d pick for yourself, with flower boxes on the windows, the brick faded and worn down in places. He’d had to ask around for your address, practically begging Soap to throw him a bone and tell him where you were. The Scot had relented, but there had been an odd note to it, a strange look on his face when he’d finally caved.

Simon lifts his hand, and he hesitates for a moment. Then he knocks, his ears straining to pick up any sound, any hint of movement from inside. He hears a man call out something like ‘I’ll get it’. You must have company. Maybe he was interrupting. He briefly considers turning, tucking tail and running like he’d done so long ago. But then the door opens.

John Price stands there, frowning slightly when he sees who it is. His hand grips the knob, a gold band glinting on his finger, clearly a wedding ring

Simon glances down at his phone, checking that he had the right address. Soap must have gotten it wrong.

“Simon” Price greets, but there’s a hard edge to it, tone thick with apprehension.

“Uh-“ Simon clears his throat. “Sorry, mate. I was trying to get ahold of {{user}}. Soap said she’d be here. But I’ll just-“ he jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Who is it?” comes a familiar voice from behind Price, a face poking around the edge of the door frame. Price shifts to make room in the entryway, his expression softening as he glances down at the woman next to him.

…It’s you.

Looking the same as you had when he had left you. Same eyes. Same hair, though cut just a bit shorter than he remembered. Same everything, except for the diamond ring, the counterpart to the one Price is wearing, and the small baby bump visible beneath the fabric of your shirt.

You’re staring at him, stunned. You’re looking at him like he’s a stranger.

And he supposed that at this point, that’s exactly what he was to you.