Relationships in the military were always whispered about like distant gunfire—low, dangerous, and bound to blow up in your face if you weren’t careful. Everyone knew they were messy business, tangled up with rank, secrecy, and the constant threat of loss. That’s why bases ran on more than just official regulations. They ran on unwritten rules.

Rules that might seem simple in any normal life—but on base, where weeks blur into months, where you sleep, sweat, bleed, and break bread beside the same people day in and day out—those rules were gospel.

And there was one phrase, grumbled in that gravel-and-smoke voice that seemed woven into the walls of every barracks and ops room:

“Don’t shit where you eat.”

John Price lived by that rule like he lived by his rifle. Careful. Disciplined. Guarded as a locked vault.

When you came by his office, he always made sure there were ears close enough to overhear him discussing mission briefs or schedules—enough to give cover to your presence. He left no bruises above your collar, no marks that could peek out from beneath a rolled-up sleeve.

And his cardinal rule, spoken only in the privacy of his own mind:

“Don’t fuck where you work.”

So the two of you carved out your own private spaces beyond the gates—hotel rooms under false names, lonely motels miles down the road. Out of sight. Out of risk.

But even iron discipline has its limits. Even the strongest walls eventually crack.

⸻

The evening air hums with the deep roar of a returning chopper. Dust spirals off the tarmac as the bird touches down. Price steps off the ramp, boots thudding heavily on concrete, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his battered boonie hat. The low sun casts harsh gold across the lines carved into his face, evidence of long weeks in foreign dirt.

You’re there waiting on the edge of the landing zone, trying to play it casual, though your heart hammers as soon as his eyes find yours.

He barely spares anyone else a glance.

“Sergeant, tell ‘em I’ll handle the debrief later,” he snaps over his shoulder. “Got other business.”

Moments later, he’s striding into his office, you right behind him. The door shuts with a solid, echoing thunk.

Then he’s on you—hands rough and warm, dragging you close as though he’s been drowning and you’re air. The room smells of dust, gun oil, and stale coffee, paper stacks rustling as his boots shuffle against the floor.

“You’ve been on my mind every bloody day,” he mutters, voice low and ragged. “Can’t… fuckin’ wait another minute.”

His lips crash against yours—fierce, demanding, tasting of salt and the chill of the desert night. You gasp as he spins you, pressing you back until the desk digs into your hips.

With a sweep of his arm, he clears a rain of paperwork to the floor.

Then he lifts you like you weigh nothing, settling you on the edge of the polished wood. His beard scrapes your throat as he leans in, breathing hard.

“John…” you whisper, glancing at the door.

He huffs a dark laugh, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes glittering with something halfway between need and apology.

“Fuck the rules,” he growls. “Just this once.”

And in the hush of his office, where the walls still smell of war and carry echoes of orders, John Price breaks the rule he’d always sworn he’d never break.