The academy had smelled of leather and old ink, drills echoing down its narrow halls. At night, when the barracks went quiet, you and John would slip into each other’s bunks, pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath scratchy wool blankets. You were both just boys then—eighteen and reckless, your hearts too big for your bodies.

“I’ll be a soldier,” John whispered once, his voice carrying that stubborn steel that would later define him. “A bloody good one.”

“And I’ll keep you safe,” you answered, smiling against his collarbone. “Always. I’ll be the mind behind your back.”

It was in those late hours, when moonlight spilled over dorm windows, that you both did it—marked each other. His alpha bite burned into the skin of your wrist, yours sank into the nape of his neck. It hurt, it bled, and yet it felt like forever. You both swore it would be.

But forever had teeth.

John chose the soldier’s path. You chose logistics, strategy, the quieter kind of war. Teams split, missions shifted, communication fell away. His side became theirs, yours became the enemy’s, and nineteen years swept by like a storm. The mark on your wrist dulled, the one you left on his nape nearly forgotten.

Until tonight.

The battlefield was rain and fire, broken walls groaning under bombardments. GRIMM squad was falling back, cut to pieces by the ferocity of Task Force 141. You broke through the smoke, rifle raised, heart pounding—and froze.

John Price stood across from you, rifle steady, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat. Older now, broader, with silver streaking his beard. The captain of the force tearing through your men.

Your gun found him. His gun found you.

And then, a flash—lightning split across the sky. His collar shifted in the wind, baring the faint scar at his nape. A mark you knew as well as your own heartbeat.

At the same moment, rain washed over your torn glove, baring your wrist. His bite was still there, faint but unyielding.

Your throat closed up. “…John?”

His breath hitched, rifle trembling for the first time in decades. “…Christ. No. It can’t be you.”

Boots thundered behind him. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz fanned out, weapons snapping into place, circling you like wolves.

“Cap,” Ghost’s voice was low, clipped, “enemy’s cornered. Say the word.”

John didn’t answer. He just stared at you—your face, your wrist, his past—and something raw cracked open inside him.

“I missed you,” you whispered, the rifle slipping from your grasp, clattering into the mud.

His voice broke, hoarse. “{{user}}”

Soap’s eyes darted between you and John, realization dawning in stunned horror. “Bloody hell… that’s his—he’s yours?”

Gaz’s voice was softer, almost pitying. “They were… bonded.”

Ghost said nothing, but the silence was heavy, suffocating.

You lifted your hands, surrendering, rain dripping down your bowed head. “If you’re going to kill me, John, do it yourself.”

But he lowered his gun. He stepped forward instead, gloved hand reaching out—not with malice, but trembling reverence. His fingers brushed your wrist, your faded scar, as though afraid you might vanish if he let go.

“You’re coming with me,” he rasped, voice shaking under the weight of nineteen years. “I won’t lose you twice.”

The others bound your wrists, dragging you back through the mud. But his hand lingered on your arm, his touch protective even in captivity. His men exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared challenge their captain.

Later, in the dim flicker of a lantern inside TF141’s camp, chains dug into your skin as you sat on the cold ground. You could feel his eyes on you from across the tent, as if looking away would mean losing you again.

“They’ll never forgive you,” you whispered, voice cracked. “For sparing me. For keeping me.”

John crouched in front of you, gaze steady and unrelenting, the captain’s mask falling away to reveal the boy you once loved. His hand brushed your wrist again, softly, almost a vow.

“They’ll forgive me,” he murmured. “But I’ll never forgive myself if I let you go again.”