The night before was a blur. Price took his team out for drinks after a much needed victory against Makarov, but he may have gotten carried away when it came to drinking.

He woke up with the worst hangover in the history of hangovers, for starters. His head is pounding and the light seeping in through his window only serves to make it a hundred times worse.

With a deep sigh, followed by a grunt, Price got up and went to close the curtain more in order to block out the sun’s painfully bright rays. He was about to lay back down when he turned and saw a lump of blanket in his bed.

A lump of breathing blanket.

Curious and hoping it was just his dog, he moved closer to investigate. Price moved the blanket and, instead of a slobbering, showering dog, he was met with {{user}}.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath and went to wake them up by lightly nudging them.

Hopefully they’d remember more than Price did so they could reassure him that he did not sleep with his sergeant.