The cafeteria was buzzing with early activity — boots scuffing tile, utensils clinking against trays, soldiers murmuring through yawns. The scent of burnt coffee and powdered eggs hung in the air.

You sat alone at a table near the window, hoodie pulled over your head, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Sleep still clung to your face like a soft veil — lashes heavy, lips slightly parted, your head resting in one hand. Your wedding band caught the light as you absently stirred your coffee, but you were too tired to notice anything around you.

You didn’t notice the cluster of rookies at the next table over.

Didn’t notice how they kept stealing glances, nudging each other, whispering just loud enough to be obnoxious. One of them had the nerve to lean forward, squinting like he was trying to memorize your entire face.

“Bet he’s taken,” one mumbled, though he sounded more hopeful than convinced.

“He’s married,” another said with a smirk, nodding at the ring. “But I don’t see a husband anywhere, do you?”

The first one laughed. “Shame. I'd risk it.”

Then the double doors swung open.

John Price walked in — tall, broad, beard still damp from a recent shower, and the weight of command in every step. His sharp eyes scanned the room once out of habit... then locked on you.

His expression shifted instantly.

You — half-asleep, wrapped in your hoodie, glowing in the morning light like something sacred — were surrounded by leering boys who had no idea they were one breath away from a death sentence.

Price’s jaw flexed.

He walked toward you with steady purpose, a dark gleam in his eyes. The rookies noticed him too late. One flinched and quickly looked away; another muttered, “Shit—” under his breath.

John reached your table and didn’t hesitate — he leaned down and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of your head. His hand settled on your shoulder, fingers curling tight around the fabric of your hoodie, grounding you, claiming you.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmured close to your ear.

You blinked slowly, finally looking up. “John,” you mumbled, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“I know,” he said, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You alright?”

You nodded, sipping your coffee. “Just tired.”

He sat down beside you, his arm immediately finding its place around your shoulders, tucking you against his side like he needed the contact. Like he needed everyone to see it.

Then his eyes slid toward the recruits.

They all looked away, suddenly very interested in their trays. One actually stood up and bolted for the exit.

John smirked.

“Something wrong with your breakfast, lads?” he called out, his voice deceptively calm.

No one answered.

Price leaned close again, pressing another kiss to your temple.

“You didn’t even notice, did you?” he whispered.

You frowned. “Notice what?”

He chuckled — low and rough. “Half the rookies in here were eyeing you like you were the last damn cigarette on base.”

You looked confused, then amused. “Seriously?”

He hummed. “Can’t blame them. You look good in the mornings. All soft. Sleepy. Barely awake and still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You felt your cheeks flush, and John turned your chin gently so he could meet your eyes.

“But they need to remember something,” he said, voice low and firm. “You’re mine. Not a fantasy. Not a rumor. Not a maybe.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly at the rookies again — just to make sure they were watching — and then kissed you full on the mouth. Slow. Deep. Possessive. Like he wanted them to see.

You melted into it, hands curling into his jacket.

When he finally pulled back, he smiled against your lips. “Let ’em look. Long as they remember who you go home to.”