"Let me." Price murmurs gruffly, kneeling down and brushing away your hands from your boots, ignoring your protests.

One of his hands cups your ankle, ever so reverent and gentle when it comes to you, and moves your leg so your foot rests atop his sturdy thigh.

Carefully—waiting only briefly for you to steady yourself—he starts to lace up your boots for you.

"You didn't need to," you mumble as you watch him.

"No," he agrees absently, focused on his task at hand, "but I wanted to."