You stood in the doorway of his quarters, your duffel bag heavy over your shoulder, but not nearly as heavy as your chest.

“I’m leaving.” you said.

John didn’t look up from his desk. He lit a cigar instead. The smoke curled between you like a slow goodbye, thick and suffocating. You waited for the clatter of his chair, the rise of his voice, anything that might sound like don’t go. It never came.

“Understood.” he said simply.

You flinched like he'd slapped you. “That’s it?”

He exhaled, long and slow, not looking at you. “You made your decision.”

You waited again, for a crack in his voice, the shift in his shoulders, anything to tell you it hurt him too. But John was stone. Untouchable.

You stepped further in. “I thought you’d fight me on this.”

Finally, he looked at you. And that look wrecked you. Because it wasn’t empty.

It was agony, wrapped in discipline. Desire, buried beneath rank. The unspoken war between what he wanted, and what he could have.

“I want to.” he said, voice low and rough. “Christ, I want to.”

He crushed the end of his cigar into the tray, jaw locked tight. “But if I keep you here for me, I lose the right to lead them. Lose their trust. Their lives. You know what that costs.”

Your throat burned. “You could’ve just said you didn’t want me.”

“I never said that.”

“But you never said you did, either.”

Silence.

You saw it. The quiet breakdown in his eyes. He was fighting. Just not for you. Not out loud. Not in a way that would change anything. And maybe that was worse.

You turned, bitter air clinging to the inside of your mouth. “I would’ve stayed, you know. If you asked.”

He didn’t stop you. Didn’t say your name. Didn’t move.

So you walked out, heart breaking for what you had, and what you never really did.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

And somewhere in the silence, Price whispered to no one “I’m sorry.”

But it was too late. You were already gone.