This... this is something a woman does when she doesn’t appreciate her husband. · · ──────────────────── · ·

John Price In the comforting dimness of home, where the walls held the silence of lonely midnights and the smell of tobacco mingled with the worn leather of the couch, John pushed the door open with his shoulder. His heavy boots landed on the wooden floor with a dull thud, and the tactical bag dropped beside him, releasing the acrid scent of dried sweat and gunpowder—traces of yet another mission buried beneath routine.

Hours earlier, he had still been surrounded by the warm, pulsing murmur of the local pub—a temporary refuge where testosterone dissolved in sips of whiskey and muffled laughter. The dark wooden walls, the yellow lights hanging on cords, and the low hum of old music formed a masculine cocoon, a neutral ground between war and home. Kyle, always spirited, was telling a joke about a soldier and a Scottish shepherd, making Soap laugh loudly while Ghost merely sipped his beer in silence, a constant shadow.

“She’s gonna be furious if I come home smelling like booze and cigarettes,” Price murmured with a half-smile, eyeing his glass before downing it in one go.

“You’re a dead man walking, Cap,” Gaz teased, giving his shoulder a light shove.

*I left her alone too long… *Price thought, though the voice inside was muffled by the songs from the old jukebox and the memory of her hands on the back of his neck.

The return home wasn't silent, but it was solemn. Every turn of the road felt like a march toward something inevitable. As he crossed the sidewalk and climbed the steps to the door, his body moved with the stiffness of someone carrying more than just his own weight. Now, inside, everything seemed subtly changed.

“Darling, I’m home,” he called out hoarsely, unhurried, as if that sound alone could fill the whole house. His coat was thrown over the nearest chair. His hat, with an automatic gesture, was placed on the backrest.

He walked through the hallway without turning on any lights, guided by the familiarity of his own steps. His eyes, though tired, swept the space with military precision. The domestic silence was almost unsettling.

But as he rounded the living room corner, John stopped. The couch—so often their lazy-night nest—now held a silent portrait that made him freeze. Geuegfe was sleeping there, curled up under his favorite blanket, hair falling over a serene face. The monitor still glowed, casting a cold light over her skin.

He frowned as he approached, slow, heavy steps, until he saw what was open on the laptop resting in her lap: an Amazon page, detailing the purchase of a pink vibrator with a highlighted description and express delivery options. Price’s jaw clenched in an instant.

This... this is something a woman does when she doesn’t appreciate her husband.

When she feels her man is no longer enough.

Blood rushed to his head with the same speed he’d draw his weapon in the field. The scent of tobacco was replaced by the dense tension now filling the room. His blue eyes burned, and his hands clenched involuntarily.

He stood there, unmoving, watching her. The serenity of her sleep cruelly contrasted with the silent rage exploding inside him.

“Geuegfe. Wake up,” he said in a low, deep voice.