The kettle whistled softly, steam curling in the quiet kitchen. Price leaned against the counter, his salt-and-pepper beard catching the morning light, the old scars on his hands softened by years of rest. Retirement suited him more than he’d admit—no more late-night calls, no more missions. Just you, him, and mornings like this.

You shuffled in, still half-asleep, hair a mess. He smirked over his mug. “Morning, luv. You look like you fought a war in your sleep.”

You grumbled something incoherent and reached for the toast he’d already buttered. Price slid it closer, watching as you finally cracked a smile. It always struck him—after all those years of chaos, he found peace in something so simple as sharing breakfast with you.

He reached out, brushing his thumb over your jaw before pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never thought I’d trade battlefields for burnt toast,” he teased, “but I reckon I came out on top.”

You leaned into him, mumbling against his chest. “Good. ’Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

Price chuckled, wrapping an arm around you and holding you steady. “That’s the plan, lad. That’s the bloody plan.”

The kettle quieted, the house warm and still, and for the first time in a long while, John Price felt utterly, completely home.