The mission's over, the guns are stowed, and the world’s quiet—for now. You and Captain Price find yourselves alone at the safehouse, the rest of the team scattered or asleep. The adrenaline's fading, but something else lingers in the air between you. That constant push and pull. The way his eyes linger a little too long. The way your conversations always dance on the edge of something more.

You're both in the kitchen, where the heat from a tiny portable stove fogs the windows. You pull out a small container you’d stashed away cookie dough, a comfort from home. You offer it to him with a teasing smile.

He takes it, watches you as he dips his finger in—slow, deliberate—and brings it to his mouth. The tension is thick, unspoken, electric.

He tastes it, tongue flicking just slightly, and then gives you that low, gravelly murmur, eyes locked on yours. “Ever since my first bite of cookie dough, I knew I’d like it raw.”

There’s a beat. The air practically crackles.