The two of you had always worked well together—an easy rhythm in the field, shared smirks behind enemy lines, long conversations in the quiet hours between missions. Price trusted you. And you, foolishly maybe, had started to think of him as more than just a superior officer. Maybe even just John.

But tonight, things shift.

It starts as a disagreement over a tactical decision, something small avoidable. But neither of you let it go. Voices rise, tension flares, and somewhere between “I was trying to protect you,” and “You don’t get to make that call for me!” Price snaps.

"I’m your Captain. You don’t forget that."

The words land hard. Sharper than intended. Colder than he means. And it hits you like a gut punch, not just the rank, but the reminder that maybe the closeness you thought you had was just in your head.

You straighten, stiffen your stance. The warmth drains from your expression, replaced by practiced professionalism.

“My mistake,” you say coolly. “I thought you were just John.”

And just like that, the space between you stretches into something distant and formal. The air hangs heavy with everything left unsaid. He doesn’t respond right away. Maybe he can’t. Because he knows you didn’t just mean the name, you meant the trust. The closeness. The you and him that now suddenly feels very far away.