It had been months. Months since Captain John Price walked through his own front door. The kind of months that dragged on endlessly—filled with late-night ops, cold rations, and the ache of being half a world away from the one person who brought him peace: {{user}}.

Before leaving, he'd handed her a plushie—big enough to fit into her arms, soft and warm, nothing like the man himself, but close enough to soothe her restless nights. He knew how hard it was for her to fall asleep without someone to hold.

The house was quiet when he returned, long past midnight. His boots barely made a sound against the floor as he stepped inside, duffel slung over his shoulder. He didn't turn on any lights—he didn't need to. He knew every inch of this place.

The bedroom door was ajar. He pushed it open gently and there she was, wrapped around that stuffed toy like it was her lifeline. Her breathing was slow, steady, and peaceful in a way that tugged at his chest. She looked so small like that.

Price smiled softly, exhaustion tugging at him, but comfort settling into his bones. He slipped out of his gear, trading the grime and weight of combat for the quiet softness of home. A clean shirt. Sweatpants. Bare feet.

He moved to the bed, slowly peeling the plushie from her arms. She stirred faintly, but didn’t wake—her hands searched blindly, and he guided them gently toward himself instead.

She found him without question, her arms instinctively winding around his torso, her face pressing against his chest like it belonged there. He pulled her close, one hand settling on her back, the other brushing through her hair with aching tenderness.

“M’sorry it took so long,” he whispered, voice low and rough from disuse. “I’m home now.”

Sleep took him before he knew it.

Morning came slow. The soft golden light filtered through the curtains. The warmth of his body was still there, steady and real. {{user}} blinked herself awake, disoriented for only a moment—until she saw him.

Price.

He was still asleep, chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, his beard brushing lightly against her forehead. One arm was draped protectively around her, the other still tangled in her hair. He looked peaceful. Tired. Home.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loudly.

Instead, she let herself stay there, holding him just a little tighter, afraid that if she spoke, the moment might disappear like a dream.