The clock ticked slow and steady, the low hum of the radiator barely keeping the evening chill at bay. John Price sat behind his battered desk, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers, the smoke curling into the dim lamplight. His sharp eyes, worn by years of combat, flicked toward you as you worked over a stack of paperwork, oblivious to the storm clawing at his chest.

He should know better. Years in the field had taught him to shove down everything that didn’t serve the mission. But this wasn’t fear or anger; it was the way you smiled when you caught him muttering under his breath, the scent of your perfume that lingered after you’d gone, and your voice carving through the walls he thought were unshakable.

You didn’t belong in his world. Not here, not with him. You were sunlight, laughter, and a future unfucked by the shadows he carried. He was too much of everything wrong. Scarred, hardened, a man who’d seen too much and left pieces of himself scattered in too many places. Yet when your eyes met him, he couldn’t shake how you looked at him, like you didn’t see the wreckage, only the man.

He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on the pen in his hand, the ashtray by his elbow, anything but you. He should say something, push you away before this became something you’d regret. But the words lodged in his throat, heavy and jagged, like shrapnel that refused to dislodge.

When your fingers brushed his, reaching for another page, it sent a jolt through him that no war had ever managed. He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair to put distance between you. “You don’t know what you’re gettin’ yourself into,” he muttered, voice rough and low.

You glanced up, startled by the edge in his tone, and he regretted it immediately. But he didn’t take it back. He couldn’t. The weight of his regret was a heavy burden he carried, a constant reminder of the potential harm he could cause.

Because as much as he wanted to pull you closer, let himself drown in the warmth you offered, he knew better.