The first thing you ought to know about John Price is this—if you think you’ve figured him out, think again.

He wears mystery like his gear: practical, necessary, worn without thought. He’s the kind of man you could spend a lifetime loving and still find some hidden corner of him catching light you’ve never seen before. Like a well-worn novel with pages stuck together near the end—something you thought you’d finished, only to be caught off guard by a new chapter that leaves your chest aching in the best way. And when that book finally closes? There’s a sequel. Of course there is.

He’s a soldier, yes—meticulous, disciplined, hardened where it counts. A man with dirt beneath his fingernails and more ghosts than he’ll admit. But there’s softness, too, in places only you get to touch. The quiet way he watches old films like Dead Poets Society as if they’re sacred texts. That worn copy of Pride and Prejudice he keeps on his bedside, half-hidden behind a spare mag and his watch. The way he’ll mutter, over whisky and firelight, that Darcy wasn’t such a bad sort. Stoic. Private. Honest.

And when the right song hums through the radio—some forgotten love tune from the ‘90s, or something older, something aching—he’ll dance. Not well. Not for show. Just a slow sway of hips, a dip of his head, like his body’s remembering what joy feels like. You’ve seen it. You’ve held it.

Four years together. Two years of quiet routines and shared cupboards. One full year in the house with ivy climbing up the fence, the one where the floors groan like an old man in the morning. You know him. Don’t you?

You’re halfway to the office, coffee lukewarm in your cup holder, when the scheduler calls—something about a mix-up, meetings moved around. “No need to rush in,” they say. And just like that, you’ve got the morning back.

You take the long road into town, windows down, the scent of dust and warm stone drifting in. The bakery’s just opened, glass fogged from the heat of the ovens. You duck inside and leave with a fresh loaf, two warm scones, and—because he loves it—some of that vile-looking SPAM. You still think it smells like regret. He insists it tastes like home. You’ve stopped trying to win the argument. You just buy it now, without complaint.

When you slip into the house, it’s silent. Not empty—just settled. Like the walls are still holding sleep. You tread softly, planning to bring him breakfast in bed: toast, eggs, that cursed meat fried just the way he likes it.

But all at once, the plan leaves your head.

You hear the water first—shower running. And then, over it—

Singing.

Not humming. Not mumbling lyrics under his breath like he does when cleaning his rifle. Singing. Low and rich. Velvet edged in gravel. Like the song means something to him. Like he’s not thinking about being overheard.

You pause at the bathroom door, one hand still gripping the paper bag. It’s a love song—you recognize it—and he’s not half bad. No, he’s… good. More than that. Honest in a way you’ve never heard in his voice before. You’ve heard him bark orders, curse at tangled Christmas lights, whisper your name into the crook of your neck—but this?

You’ve never heard this.

It’s the sound of a man unburdened. A version of him no one gets to see. And for a moment you stand there, not moving, barely breathing, caught in the gravity of something delicate and rare.

And you realize—with that same gentle ache you’ve felt since the first time he touched your cheek—you haven’t reached the last chapter. Not even close.