The bar is packed, the air thick with sweat, cigarette smoke, and the sharp bite of whiskey. Task Force 141 doesn’t get nights off often, and when they do, they make the most of it. Price is at the bar, chatting with Ghost over a pint. Gaz is hustling some poor bastard at pool. And Johnny—Johnny’s been watching you.
Not because he doesn’t trust you. No, never that. But because of the private who’s had his eyes on you all night, the one who’s just gotten too bold.
The guy’s got his hands on you now, yanking you into his chest, grinning like he’s got some kind of right.
Johnny’s moving before he even registers it.
Fist clenched, jaw tight, boots pounding against the sticky floor, and then—he rips the bastard off you. The crack of impact is lost under the hum of the bar, but the way the private stumbles back, dazed, is not.
“She loves it,” the guy sneers, rubbing his arm. “It’s what she wants.”
Johnny’s voice is low, dangerous. “It is not what she wants.”
“She likes it rough.”
“No, she doesn’t, and she never has.”
The private’s eyes narrow. “And how the fuck would you know?”
Johnny doesn’t hesitate. “Because I’m her fucking boyfriend!”
The bar falls silent.
Price exhales sharply, setting his drink down. Gaz freezes mid-shot, the cue hovering over the table. Ghost tilts his head just slightly, unreadable behind his mask.
Johnny’s chest heaves, his hands balled into fists at his sides, and he doesn’t take his eyes off you.
He’s not sorry.
Not even a little.