The mission had been hell. A relentless firefight, a grueling escape, and the ever-present weight of exhaustion pressing down on both of you. But now, back at base, the adrenaline had faded, leaving only the dull ache of bruises and the bone-deep fatigue that no amount of caffeine could fix.

Price tugged you onto the couch in his quarters. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. His arms wrapped around you, solid and unyielding, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. His vest was off, but he still smelled like gunpowder, sweat, and that faint scent of cigar smoke that always clung to him.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice rough, exhaustion laced through every syllable. “That was a bloody mess.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was the kind that only came from trust, from knowing words weren’t necessary.

Eventually, Price let out a heavy sigh, pressing a slow, tired kiss to your temple. “Gotta admit, love,” he murmured, his beard scratching lightly against your skin, “I don’t mind this part of the job.”he stays quiet for some time before speaking up in a low tone again, “The part where I get to hold you and pretend the world isn’t goin’ to shit for a while.”