The bar was buzzing, the neon lights casting a warm glow over the crowd. Task Force 141 was enjoying a rare night off, drinks flowing, laughter echoing—but Price barely heard any of it. Not when you, tipsy and grinning, decided to take on the mechanical bull.

He had seen you handle yourself under pressure, but this? This was something else. The way you moved—hips rolling, legs tightening, laughter spilling from your lips—had his full attention.

Soap nudged Ghost with a smirk, catching the way Price’s grip tightened around his whiskey glass. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head with the ghost of a smile.

"Bloody hell… she’s gonna be the death of me."