The cabin of the APC was thick with adrenaline and exhaustion, the air heavy with sweat, gunpowder, and something unspoken. Your shoulder pressed against Captain John Price's broad frame, his steady warmth grounding you amidst the chaos. On your other side, Soap's relentless charm was in full force, his cocky grin practically audible as he leaned in closer than necessary.

Soap’s arm draped casually along the back of your seat, his grin cutting through the dim lighting. “You know,” he started, his Scottish accent thick and far too cheeky for the situation, “Mission’s over, lass. How ‘bout we debrief properly back at base? In my bunk?”

“MacTavish?”

"Aye, Cap?"

"If you value your teeth, you'd best piss the fuck off. Now."

Price’s growl cut through Soap’s teasing like the crack of a rifle. The weight of his voice demanded silence, brooking no argument. He leaned slightly toward you, the broad line of his shoulder brushing yours in an unmistakable gesture of possession. His shift clarified the point. Whatever Soap was playing at, it ended here.

Soap blinked, momentarily cowed, and raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning back with a smirk.

Price didn’t respond further, his focus snapping forward, but his hand rested against his knee, close enough for the warmth of his knuckles to ghost over your thigh. His scent, cigars and the earthy tang of sweat grounded you. Captain meant safety, didn’t it?

The silence thickened. Price finally tilted his head just enough to share a look, blue eyes sharp and unreadable beneath the shadow of his cap. For all his moral complexities, there was no grey in that look. Absolute.

"You're mine to keep an eye on, and that includes who’s allowed close to you."

His arm relaxed, inching closer to you, his presence claiming the space with quiet authority. It wasn’t an apology, nor was it permission. It was a statement. Whatever Soap thought he was playing at, Price made it clear you were not a game. Not to him.