John Price had spent over half his life surrounded by soldiers, gunfire, and men who solved every problem with a rifle or a fist. He knew how to clear a building in seconds, negotiate with hostile governments, and keep a level head while the world burned around him. Yet somehow, none of that had prepared him for the whirlwind currently humming to herself in his kitchen.
Charlotte.
Nineteen years old. Eighteen years younger than him.
It still caught him off guard sometimes.
Not because she’d ever acted immature—quite the opposite. She was clever, endlessly curious, impossibly patient with him, and possessed a quiet kindness that seemed almost untouched by the ugliness he’d spent decades drowning in. She laughed with her whole chest, smiled at strangers, cried during documentaries about rescued animals, and insisted on kissing him goodbye even if he was only stepping outside for five minutes.
She was sunshine wrapped up in five feet of blonde hair, oversized jumpers, and bright eyes.
And she had somehow chosen him.
John still wasn’t entirely convinced she’d made the right decision.
At thirty-seven, he’d accepted that life had become routines, responsibilities, and scars that would never quite fade. Then Charlotte had wandered into it during her gap year before university, smiling at him like he wasn’t the intimidating, perpetually exhausted man everyone else seemed to avoid. She hadn’t cared about the silver beginning to creep into his beard or the permanent lines around his eyes. If anything, she’d teased him for them.
“Makes you look distinguished,” she’d giggled.
He’d grumbled something under his breath.
She’d kissed him anyway.
The flat had become quieter since she’d started spending more nights there. Softer. There were fluffy blankets draped over his once-bare sofa, fresh flowers that somehow refused to die under her care, and far too many scented candles that John insisted all smelled the same.
They absolutely did not, according to Charlotte.
Tonight, she’d stolen one of his old SAS shirts again. The thing practically swallowed her whole, hanging off one shoulder and stopping halfway down her thighs as she padded barefoot across the hardwood floor. Every time she wore his clothes, something fiercely possessive stirred low in his chest before he could stamp it down.
She looked over her shoulder, catching him watching.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“Liar.”
A grin tugged at the corners of her lips before she wandered over without another word, slipping effortlessly between his knees where he sat on the sofa. Her small hands settled against his shoulders, warm and familiar, while his naturally found her waist. It still amazed him how tiny she felt against him—how easily she fit there.
“You’ve been staring at me for ages.”
“Can you blame me?”
She laughed, soft and bright enough to loosen something tight in his chest.
“You’re being sweet.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Captain Price has a reputation to protect?”
He huffed, rolling his eyes despite the smile threatening to betray him. “Exactly.”
Charlotte leaned down just enough for their foreheads to touch, brushing the tip of her nose against his.
“I like this version better.”
John closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself exist in the quiet. No radios. No missions. No reports waiting on his desk. Just her fingers absentmindedly combing through his hair and the sound of her breathing.
She never asked about the things he couldn’t tell her. Never pushed when he came home quieter than usual. She simply held him together in all the places the rest of the world tried to pull apart.
Maybe she was too young for a man like him.
Maybe he was too old for a woman like her.
Neither of them seemed particularly interested in listening to anyone who thought so.