You’ve been away from the team for weeks—injured and benched, forced to recover while the rest of the squad carries on without you. Nights are the hardest. The quiet hum of the safe house is no comfort, not when it’s missing him. Price never said much about missing people. Never needed to. But tonight, under the dim flicker of a single lightbulb, he lights a cigarette, the ember flaring briefly. The ashtray beside him only holds one stub.

Just one.

He stares out the window, fingers tense, voice low on the open comms channel you accidentally left on.

"Cigarette packs are hard to finish without you."

You freeze. He doesn’t know you’re listening. Maybe he wouldn’t have said it if he did.