Mornings used to come gently.

Light pooling through the curtains you argued over: too frilly, too “domestic,” too not him. Price just gave that low huff of a laugh, bought them anyway, and hung them with the kind of precision only a man who had precision carved into his bones would be able to achieve. Then he kissed your head and said, “You’re allowed pretty things, love.”

He always woke first. Years of habit, years of discipline, years of carrying weight that didn’t belong to him; but with you? He softened. His guard dropped just enough for you to see the man behind the rank: the one who leaned over you with a smile so gentle it barely existed, like even his happiness had a sense of decorum.

Coffee brewed the way he liked it: strong enough to put hair on your soul. His morning playlist: a tragedy of 80s rock and dad tracks, hummed from the kitchen because “a morning’s only as good as its soundtrack, sweetheart.”

You’d shuffle in wearing one of his old shirts, sleeves swallowing your hands, and he’d turn toward you like sunrise wasn’t something that happened outside but something that happened to him.

He’d kiss you slow.

Slow in the way men with miles on their heart do: deliberate, steady, intentional. Like gratitude had a physical form.

Dance first, breakfast second. Not tradition. Not superstition. Just his excuse to hold you before the world claimed him again.

He’d tug you into the kitchen with that warm, calloused hand, guiding you with the ease of a man who once learned ballroom at eighteen because his mum thought it would “keep him out of trouble.” He’d spin you gently, thumb brushing your spine, forehead resting against yours as his chest vibrated with a laugh meant for no one else.

He smelled like cedar, smoke, and the kind of safety you don’t find: you’re built into.

You didn’t know a moment could become a memory while you were still inside it.

Then the knock came.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just a polite, too-careful knock: the kind people use when they’re about to break your world but want to do it gently.

A folded British flag. Dog tags laid with reverence. His ring: the one he wore proudly, the one he turned with his thumb whenever he talked about you, looped around the chain.

“Captain Price didn’t make it back.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The air felt heavy, like it was trying to hold you together because it knew you were seconds from shattering.

They said words. You heard none. All you saw was him in the kitchen, swaying you back and forth, humming under his breath like he was trying to rewrite his own fate through the rhythm of your heartbeat.

The world didn’t end, but it dimmed.

Lights harsh. Rooms cavernous. His presence lingering in the corners like the ghost of warmth on your skin.

His boonie hat on the hook. His coat on the chair. His mug by the sink with a ring of coffee staining the bottom because grief memorializes the oddest things. The house became a museum of him: every object an exhibit of a life that felt halfway lived.

You still play the playlist he loved. Even the dated rock ballads. Especially those.

Sometimes, without thinking, you turn as if expecting him to be there: leaning in the doorway with that quiet half-smile reserved for you and you alone.

You start dancing again.

Not because it fixes anything. Not because it helps.

But because your body remembers the weight of his hand at the small of your back. The way he swayed like a man who didn’t believe in happy endings but dared to try for one anyway.

Grief settles in the places he used to stand: at your back while you cooked, behind you at the sink, next to you in the doorway where he’d rest his hand on your hip without saying a word.

You sway. Eyes closed. Bare feet on cold tile.

And for a single, traitorous heartbeat… you feel a rough palm settle against your waist, guiding you like he always did.

You keep dancing anyway.

Because loving Price was an anchor. And remembering him is the last way you know how to stay upright.