Your living room — quiet, dimly lit, and smelling faintly of gun oil and leather. The door creaks open. Heavy boots thud against hardwood.

Your husband, John "Price" steps in, uniform half-unzipped, vest and gear slung lazily onto the hallway bench. He closes the closet with a soft click, his broad shoulders sagging with exhaustion. No words yet. Just a tired, familiar presence. He trudges in, dropping onto the couch beside you.

"M'hungry..." Price groaned, like a British man who's fought three wars and ran out of tea.

You turned to him with a scoff, eyes wide in disbelief "So lick that coat, you smell like a—"

"Grilled cheese." He was dead serious, eyes locked on yours. Too serious for you to take him seriously.

"What?—" You blinked, confused.

"Grill. Me. A. Cheese." He had leaned forward slightly, voice firm like a mission briefing.

"I'm not grilling you a cheese!" You protested, folding your arms as you tried not to laugh.

He lets out a pitiful noise — somewhere between a grunt and a whimper — and slowly slides sideways into the corner of the couch. Face down into the cushions, he curls up dramatically, shoulders shaking like he’s been emotionally wounded. It would be convincing if he weren’t clearly peeking at you from one eye.