The pub’s warm, low-lit atmosphere was a stark contrast to the chaos you and John had just left behind. You were tucked away in a corner booth, the familiar comfort of his presence easing the lingering tension from the mission. John slid a pint of beer toward you, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Come on, love, just one sip,” he coaxed, his voice soft yet insistent. “You’ve earned it.”

You stared at the amber liquid, bubbles rising lazily to the surface. It looked harmless enough, but the bitter taste from the last time you tried it still haunted you. You scrunched your nose slightly and pushed the pint back. “I’m more of a soda person, Price.”

John chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Soda? You’re in a pub, not a bloody cinema.” He pushed the glass back with a bit more insistence. “One sip, and I’ll let it go.”

With a resigned sigh, you took the glass. His eyes were locked on yours, filled with that playful challenge you could never resist. You took a sip, and immediately regretted it. The bitterness hit you in no second, spreading across your tongue like an unwelcome guest. You fought the urge to spit it out, forcing yourself to swallow. It was even worse than you remembered. You grimaced, setting the pint down with a heavy thud.

“Still awful,” you declared, wiping your mouth. “How do you drink this stuff?”

Price grinned, leaning closer, his hand finding yours on the table. “Acquired taste, love. Besides, it’s not the beer I enjoy—it's the company.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Flattery won’t change the fact that it tastes like regret in a glass.”

His laughter filled the small booth, and he squeezed your hand. “Maybe, but at least we’re alive to complain about it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh with him, the tension of the day finally melting away.