You spot him before he sees you.

He’s halfway across the open gravel yard, boots heavy in the dirt, sweat bleeding through the back of his shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with dust and sun, and he’s barking something into his comms like the war hasn’t left his lungs yet.

You stay still. Just for a second.

You didn’t think you’d feel nervous—but watching him like this, the magnitude of the distance you crossed to stand here finally sinks in. This isn’t a postcard visit. This is his world. The one with razor wire and men who speak in silence. The one where you’re an outlier.

He turns.

And everything stops.

His voice falters. His jaw tightens like he’s forcing words down. And for a heartbeat—just one—you think he might tell you to leave. That old tension floods his posture. That trained instinct that says, this is not where she belongs.

Then he moves.

Crosses the space in a few long strides, stopping just close enough that you feel the heat rolling off him.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” His voice is low, rough with disbelief. Not angry. Not quite.

You try to smile, but your heart is thudding. “Surprise.”

He stares at you, eyes scanning every inch of your face like he’s checking for injuries, for regret, for whether this is a dream and he’s going to wake up with sand in his eyes and gunfire in his ears.

“You flew halfway across the world,” he mutters, brows furrowed. “Through four security checkpoints and into a fuckin’ ops zone—just to stand in my yard?”

You shrug. “Thought you might want tea.”

That does it.

His face breaks. Just slightly. His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, like if he lets it take over he might do something stupid like grab you too hard or kiss you where someone might see.

“Christ,” he breathes, running a hand over his beard. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He steps in close, hand sliding to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again, but there’s no bite in it. Just weight.

“I know.”

He looks around, just once, then back at you—eyes softer now, something raw flickering behind them.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs, and pulls you in.

And in the middle of a war zone, under the blistering sun, John Price kisses you like you’re the only safe thing he has left.