You found Price slumped against the doorframe of his quarters, hair a mess, boots still on, and looking like he’d just gone twelve rounds with a bottle of whiskey—and lost. His shirt was wrinkled, sleeves half-rolled, like he’d tried at some point to make himself comfortable and just gave up halfway through.

The moment you stepped closer, his glazed-over eyes snapped to you, narrowing with drunken suspicion. He wobbled slightly, then raised a finger, deadly serious.

“Hold on there, miss,” he slurred, voice rough but full of exaggerated dignity. “I’m a married man.”

You blinked. “Oh?”

He nodded, solemn as a priest. “Lovely wife. Tough as nails. Beautiful, too.” He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a state secret. “She’d rip me to shreds if she caught me talkin’ to you.”

You crossed your arms, trying your damned hardest not to laugh. “Sounds like a real piece of work.”

Price’s expression shifted from cautious to scandalized in an instant. “Oi, don’t talk about her like that,” he scolded, squinting at you like you’d personally offended him. Then, just as fast, the outrage faded, his brow softening as he really looked at you. “She’s… she’s great,” he muttered, quieter now. “Perfect. Best thing that ever happened to a fool like me.”

Your amusement faltered for just a second at the sincerity in his voice.

And then, like clockwork, his balance betrayed him, and he damn near toppled forward. You caught him with both hands before he could faceplant into the floor, bracing under his weight.

He huffed, trying to push you off with the coordination of a newborn deer. “Oi—what’d I just say—hic—I have a wife…!”