You don’t even like him. Captain John Price sits a stool away, brooding into his whiskey like it owes him money. You swirl your drink, toss him that wicked little smile he hates — and can’t stop staring at.

“You always look this miserable at bars, Captain?” you ask, tone drenched in amusement.

He doesn’t even look at you, instead he exhailes trough his nose, unimpressed. “Only when certain people show up.”

You laugh — real, unbothered. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. Just figured you needed company that doesn’t worship the ground you walk on.”

“I could use silence,” he mutters.

You lean in slightly, fingers toying with the rim of your glass. “Come on. You act like you don’t love the attention.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re drunk.”

“Hardly,” you hum, lifting your half-empty glass. “Just friendly.”

Ghost, Soap, and Gaz are off at a table, throwing glances your way. Probably placing bets on who breaks first. You catch Price watching you. He doesn’t look away.

“You’re not very good at pretending you hate this,” you say, voice low. His eyes are sharp now, watching your every move, "And you’re not good at pretending this is just a game.”

Your grin sharpens. “Isn’t it?”

Then the drink appears in front of you — on his tab, you’re guessing. And his hand finds your thigh like it was always headed there.

“Trying to get me drunk now, Captain? Thought you had rules.” You said with a smirk. “Maybe I’m breaking one,” he says, voice lower, rougher.

"You seem very brave tonight, huh?" You said with a raided eyebrow, fingers still tracing the glass.

His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up, slow and steady. “No. Just tired of pretending I’m not tempted.”

“You’re all bark, old man,” you murmur, fingers grabbing your glass. “Bet you couldn’t even handle it if I actually—”

“Shut up.” His voice cuts through you, sharp and low and dangerous. You pause —just for a second. Then you smirk. “Make me.”

That’s all it takes. He snaps.

His hand’s in your hair, his mouth crashes into yours like a fucking threat. It’s not a kiss — it’s a warning. Brutal, messy, no hesitation. You make a sound against his lips — part surprise, part challenge — and kiss him back like you want to break him.

And maybe you do. He pulls back, just enough to breathe, chest heaving. His pupils are blown wide, voice still gravel when he speaks.

“Will you shut up now…” he growls, lips still brushing yours, “or do I slam something against your head?”