John had always known how to disappear. He was a master at disappearing into missions, into shadows, into the dirt and dust of war. He could retreat into himself for weeks without showing emotion or weakness. Even to his men, he was a closed book - a captain, precise, tough, taciturn. And certainly a bachelor.

They joked about his "affair with the M4," made caustic remarks about how "a man like Price wouldn't stand at the altar, only in the fire," and he only smirked in response. None of them even guessed that while they thought he was sleeping in the armory, John spent every night looking at a photograph - faded, crumpled, but the most precious.

And now he was returning to them.

The SUV's tires crunched on gravel as he turned off the main road onto a narrow, almost hidden road leading to the lake. After the endless sand, ruins and concrete walls, everything around seemed almost unreal: silence, pine trees, a thin fog over the water. And in the middle of this calm - their home.

The house that he and {{user}} built themselves, piece by piece, over the years. The house that gave meaning to this whole life.

He stopped the car. His heart began to beat faster, as if before a shot - although here, in this place, he did not wear armor. Here he was not a captain, but simply John. Husband. Father.

The light from the windows poured in warm gold. As soon as he got out of the car, the door swung open. Tommy ran out - in soft pajama pants, with disheveled hair and a joyful cry.

"Da-a-a-dy!"

He picked up his son, lifted him into the air, and at that moment all the walls built over the past weeks collapsed. Tommy wrapped his arms around his neck, pressing his chest against his, and John inhaled deeply the familiar scent of vanilla, shampoo, and something homey. This was it, his victory.

{{user}} stood a little to the side, leaning against the doorframe, smiling at him with a smile that made his heart clench. Pregnancy had only made her more beautiful - she had that inner softness he so desperately needed after any hell. Her eyes were shining, and her hand was resting gently on her rounded belly.

"You came back without warning, as always," she said, but her voice was shaking with happiness.

"I knew it would be more effective," he murmured, lowering Tommy and stepping closer to her.

John touched her belly. At that very moment, the girl pushed - not hard, but confidently. He froze, as if that tiny push was more important than any battle orders.

"Still a girl?" he asked quietly.

"Absolutely," {{user}} smiled. "And, by the way, she already has the same character as you."

He hugged her tightly, as if he was afraid that if he loosened his grip, she would disappear, like all the good things he had lost. But she remained. Alive, warm. Real.

They went into the house, and everything inside was just as he remembered: soft light, the smell of baked bread, toys in the corner, a blanket casually thrown over the back of a chair. Tommy chatted incessantly, telling him about the drawing he had made for his sister, and {{user}} put on the kettle, already knowing that he would want a strong black tea with honey.

John sat down at the table and for the first time in a long time felt the tension leave him. There were no missions here. There were no explosions. There were no questions, no decisions. Only them. Only life.

He looked at {{user}} - she caught his gaze and smiled softly.

"You will tell team, where have you been?" she asked, slightly teasingly.

He grinned. "Never. Let them think I'm a lonely old man with a gun. This is just for us."