Price groaned as he leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. His back ached like hell, the tension knotting deep between his shoulders and refusing to budge no matter how much he rolled them. The damn paperwork was endless—an avalanche of forms, reports, and requisitions that all needed his signature or review.

He’d rather be anywhere else. Doing anything else.

But here he was, hunched over a desk that felt too small, eyes burning from hours spent staring at the same damn pages until the words blurred together. His hand cramped from gripping the pen too tight, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, tossing the pen down with a scowl. “Bet the damn brass haven’t seen a day’s worth of this shit in their lives.”

{{user}} was seated next to him, sifting through the stacks with a kind of focus he envied. Their help made the workload bearable and kept him from drowning under the sheer weight of it all. But even their presence couldn’t fully chase away the irritability gnawing at him.

“Back’s killing me,” he grumbled, rolling his shoulders again with a wince. “Think I’d rather be shot at than sit through another bloody hour of this. At least bullets make sense.”

“Guess I owe you one,” he admitted, voice gruff. “Or ten. You’re making this mess a hell of a lot more tolerable.”

He dragged a hand down his face, feeling the rough scratch of stubble against his palm. The hours were melting together, but at least he wasn’t dealing with it alone. Somehow, that made all the difference.

Even if his back was screaming in protest.