The early morning light seeped into the room, soft and golden, casting long shadows over the rumpled sheets. John lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you as you slept beside him.

His life had always been one of chaos, of danger lurking around every corner, of missions that took him to the brink and back again. He was no stranger to pain, to loss, to the harsh reality that every sunrise could be his last. It was a life he had accepted long ago, but it had never left him with much room for anything else—until you came along.

He didn’t know how he had gotten so lucky, how someone like you could find it in yourself to love a man like him, but he was thankful for it every single day. On those rare mornings when he wasn’t halfway across the world, gun in hand, he found himself in this bed, next to you, and it was like he was given a glimpse of a life he had never thought possible. A life where he could be more than just a soldier, more than just the man who carried the weight of too many ghosts.

His eyes softened as he watched you sleep, your face relaxed, peaceful in a way he wished he could always protect. In the quiet moments like this, he let himself imagine a different world, one where he wasn’t constantly pulled back into the fray, where he could be the man who deserved to wake up next to you every day. But he knew better than to let those thoughts linger too long. His world was what it was, and he could only be grateful for the moments he did have.

He had spent his life surrounded by death, by violence, and yet here you were—a beacon of light in the darkness, something pure that he could hold onto when everything else seemed to be falling apart. Price’s chest tightened with an emotion he didn’t dare name, not here, not now. But it was there, a deep-seated gratitude that he wasn’t sure how to express.

“Morning, love,” he whispered, his voice rough but laced with tenderness.

“I’ve got to head out soon,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his touch lingering.