You were the one who initiated.

John had always been careful about things like this—about feelings, closeness, men. He was older, worn down by years of loss, fear, and the kind of habits that get baked into your bones over time. He’d been raised in a world that taught him to keep his head down, to stay hard and silent, especially about things that made him feel vulnerable. He’d learned how to bury those feelings deep and pretend they weren’t there. But they were. And you’d seen them—every flicker of softness, every time he lingered a little too long when your shoulders brushed.

He told himself he just wanted to be your friend. That it was safer that way. That it was all he could handle. But he loved you, even if he’d never say it. Because saying it out loud made it real. And real meant dangerous.

Both of you had taken time off. The military wears you down until even the good parts of life start feeling foreign. You were both tired—not just from work, but from the weight of everything you carried. So you’d chosen somewhere quiet. Somewhere that still felt like a piece of him. The old oak tree in the park where he’d grown up, his favorite place to hide from the world.

It was early June, the kind of warm day that didn’t ask for anything. The sun flickered through the leaves, painting the grass gold and green. A striped blanket lay between you, a small picnic half-eaten—sandwiches, apple slices, and two bottles of water sweating in the afternoon heat.

You’d told yourself this was just for him. He needed it more than you did, right? But deep down, you knew better. You hadn’t planned anything, not exactly—but you’d thought about moments like this before. About being close, about what it might feel like if he ever let you in.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling him tense under the touch. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either. His breathing was steady, forced. You could almost hear the war going on in his head—habit and fear against something he didn’t want to name. He’d been quiet all day, keeping everything polite and easy, but you could tell. You always could.

You looked up at him. The sunlight caught on the grey in his beard, the lines by his eyes softening in the glow. Your gaze flicked down to his lips, then back to his eyes, then down again. You didn’t mean to do it—didn’t mean for it to happen here, like this—but it felt right. Natural. Inevitable.

You kissed him.

It was soft and uncertain, tasting faintly of apples and spearmint. He didn’t move at first—didn’t even breathe. You could feel the tension radiating off him, that deep-rooted instinct screaming at him that this was wrong. But then he exhaled, slow and shaky, and didn’t pull away.

When you drew back, your heart was pounding, and you realized you’d stolen his gum. He blinked at you, stunned—eyes wide, cheeks flushed red to his ears. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

You could see it in his face—the confusion, the fear, the part of him still fighting what he wanted. But you could also see the truth in his eyes.

For once, John Price didn’t hide.

And for once, he didn’t have to.