Captain John Price was a man built from iron and smoke. To most, he was the backbone of TF 141—solid and unshakable. The kind who didn’t need to bark to be heard. His presence commanded silence and loyalty. Where Soap brought noise and momentum, Price brought gravity. He moved with purpose, carrying leadership like the brim of his Boonie hat—worn, reliable, unmistakably his.
Old-school and set in his ways, if there was something he wanted, he wouldn’t ask twice. He’d go through fire to claim it. They said Ghost was the one with secrets—hidden face, locked-down soul. But Price? Price had layers no one got close enough to peel back.
He gave the illusion of transparency. The scent of black coffee before dawn, the strike of a match before lighting his cigar, and idle talk about fishing trips in his garage. He let people believe they had him figured out—an aging soldier with simple tastes, that there was nothing left beneath the scars and the gravel-rough voice.
But nobody—not even the men who’d take bullets for him—knew how his house sounded after midnight. They didn’t know how gently he spoke someone’s name when the world quieted, or how he left a light on by the front door before every deployment, as if hoping it’d guide him home. The real John Price lived in the stillness between operations. He existed in the pause. That part of him—the man waiting for him in that pause—was his husband, a love he never brought to base.
Because the truth? The military had come a long way, but there were still things that felt unsafe to show. Still rooms where love had to stay invisible.
⸻
The base stirred with the return of its captain. Four weeks of leave—long enough for routines to feel hollow without him. Long enough for the men to notice the absence of his steady presence.
The briefing room was chaos. Soap fidgeted, trying to balance a pen on his upper lip. Gaz thumbed through intel with a look that said he was reading none of it. Ghost stood in the back, impassive as ever.
Price was at the head, sleeves rolled, tone clipped and focused. He gripped the table like he was anchoring himself. Controlled but not quite untouched.
Then—
Soap blinked. The pen dropped. He tilted his head. “Cap? You, uh… trying out a new accessory?”
Price didn’t flinch. “You trying out a new way to waste my time, Sergeant?”
“Nah,” Soap said, gesturing with his chin. “Just didn’t take you for the jewelry type.”
All eyes shifted. Even Ghost moved enough to catch the glint of metal on Price’s left hand. A ring. Modest, worn smooth.
Price paused, gaze flicking to the band as if forgotten. His jaw shifted, but he didn’t hide it or explain.
He let his hand drop, cleared his throat, continued. Yet the current in the room had changed. Soap’s eyes lingered. Gaz exchanged a glance with Ghost, who gave a faint nod. No one asked. Not yet. But they remembered.
⸻
Later, near the smoker’s corner, Price lit a cigar with his battered Zippo. The sky was dimming, streaked with sunset. Soap sidled up beside him, arms folded, gaze fixed ahead. “She real?” Soap asked after a beat, too casual.
Price took a drag. “He is.”
Soap blinked. “Didn’t know that was your lane, Cap.”
Price exhaled, eyes on the smoke. “Not something I felt the need to explain. Doesn’t always go over well in places like this.”
A pause. Not awkward. Just honest.
Soap furrowed his brow, turning slightly. “Right… so you’re married. To a guy.”
Price met his gaze, calm. Soap’s voice dropped. “You’re… married. To a man.”
Price’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I am.”
Soap looked away, absorbing it, then gave a grin—equal parts respect and surprise. “Well. That’s… not what I expected.”
He shook his head, then brightened. “So what’re you saying? You bringing him to the birthday party? Because if he can handle us for a night, he’s earned his stripes.”
Price chuckled quietly, the sound rough but warm. “Maybe.”