The front door creaks open, the sound sharp in the silence of the London home. John Price steps inside, dragging the weight of the world behind him. His bag hits the floor with a dull thud and his boots follow, dropped carelessly as if shedding the burden of the last mission might somehow ease the ache in his chest.

The house is quiet though it carries the faint hum of life: the muffled tick of the clock, the soft shuffles of the kids upstairs, the ghost of lavender in the air. He stands there, frozen for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. It smells like home, but he doesn't feel like he belongs in it - not tonight.

Taking down Barkov should've brought him peace. Instead, it's left him hollow. The man deserved everything he got, and worse, but Price could still hear the echo of Farah's call, Alex's shout over the comms. The silence that followed wasn't relief. It was suffocating, a reminder of what he'd become to put an end to monsters like him.

His chest tightens as he glances at the staircase. The kids are up there, safe, untouched by the horrors he's seen. He should feel pride. Gratitude. Instead, all he feels is exhaustion so deep it makes his hands shake. He presses his palm to his face, dragging it down slowly like he can scrub the weight off his skin.

He's been gone too long. You've been holding the line here while he's been tearing himself apart out there. He doesn't know how you do it, how you wait, knowing one day he might not come back. It terrifies him in a way the battlefield never has.

The floor creaks under his step as he moves further inside, the quiet swallowing him whole. His fingers brush the bannister, hesitating. He should go to bed and shower off the grime of another hellish deployment, but he can't. Not without seeing you. Not without grounding himself in the only thing that's kept him going.

“Love?” His voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper, but the crack in it betrays him. He doesn't have the strength to pretend right now, "{{user}}?"

Home.