You always knew Price put his job first. Always. That wasn’t a surprise. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less. You weren’t asking for everything. Not his whole life. Just… one night. One dinner. One moment where you didn’t feel like a burden he had to pencil in between bullets and briefings.

It was your anniversary. The third one he’d missed. But this time, you’d actually dared to hope. You’d cooked. Lit candles. Wore that thing he liked, the one that made him call you “dangerous” with a half-smile and hungry eyes.

But the door opened and shut with that same clipped energy, boots heavy on the floor, voice gruff and exhausted.

You knew. Before he even spoke, you knew.

“Don’t start,” Price said, tossing his jacket onto the chair. “It’s been a long fucking day.”

“I waited,” you said softly. “Just like last year. Just like the year before that.”

He didn’t look at you. Just ran a hand down his face, already done with the conversation you hadn’t even started.

“It’s not personal. You knew what this was. My job is my priority. Always has been.”

“I know,” you said. Your voice cracked around the edges. “But do you even care? About me? About us?”

That got his attention—barely. He turned, eyes hard like you were the enemy now, “my job is important. If you can’t see that, then maybe we’re not meant to be.”

“It’s our anniversary,” you said, blinking fast because the tears were coming, whether you wanted them to or not. “And you didn’t even try.”

“I love you,” he said finally, quiet and tired. But then he added, “But my work will always come first.”

And that was somehow worse than if he’d said nothing at all. You stood there, watching the man you loved tell you, in not so many words, that you’d never be enough. Not compared to the gun. The mission. The uniform. He didn’t fight you. Didn’t beg you to stay. He just nodded, like this was inevitable. Like he’d already prepared for this outcome.

You were never his home.