If you had to describe John Price—the man beneath the Captain’s uniform and boonie hat—in one word, it would be unpredictable.

Because for all the world believed him a creature of cigar smoke and quiet nights, nursing good whiskey by the fire, the truth was far less sedate.

John Price thrived on surprises. He adored planning date nights, eyes shining at your reaction. He loved grand gestures and small, secret thrills.

He was the sort of man who’d book a table at a five-star restaurant one week, and the next, shake you awake before dawn with that wicked grin, growling, “Up. Training gear. Now.”

Still early in your relationship, he’d driven you through streets half-asleep, sunrise bleeding gold between buildings, to a boxing gym tucked behind shuttered shops.

Inside smelled of chalk and sweat. Music thumped against the walls. Price stood close, chest brushing yours as he guided your arms into a guard. His voice, low and scratchy, curled heat along your spine as he taught you how to twist your hips into a punch.

It was meant to be serious—tactical. But his hands kept lingering on your waist. His mouth kept brushing your temple. Soon the lesson fell apart.

He had you pinned on the mat, his weight pressing you into the canvas, lips ghosting over yours between breathless laughter. Until he finally dragged you into a changing room, muttering, “Couldn’t bloody wait.”

John Price was also the man who booked a rage room after you’d come home furious about a coworker. He handed you a crowbar, watched you destroy a printer, then took you for greasy burgers, pride burning bright in his eyes.

Despite his calm, lethal edge, John Price craved moments where life felt messy and alive.

But it was in the quiet, domestic moments that he truly unraveled you.

Like this morning.

Sunlight spilled across the kitchen tiles. You hovered in the doorway, coffee cooling between your palms, watching him stand at the washing machine in battered sweatpants and a faded tee.

He frowned down at piles of clothes, muttering, “Don’t mix the reds and the whites. That’s how you end up lookin’ like a bloody Valentine’s Day card.”

A laugh spilled from your lips. You crossed the room, sidling closer until your breath brushed his neck, and murmured, soft and teasing:

“Good boy.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Price froze, hands caught mid-motion. His eyes snapped up, sharp blue gone wide, color crawling up his throat.

“Sweetheart…” he growled, voice hoarse, “you can’t just say shit like that.”

“Why not?” you teased, tilting your head, leaning deeper into his space. “It’s true.”

He blinked, stunned, as though you’d cracked open his chest and laid bare something private. His throat worked as he swallowed. He cleared his throat, trying for his usual iron composure, but his voice wobbled, betraying him.

“You keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll shag you right here on the soddin’ washer.”

“Oh? Is that a threat or a promise, Captain?”

He let out a sharp exhale, cheeks still pink, glaring at you like you’d committed a war crime.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to hide the trembling grin threatening to escape.

You watched the fight behind his eyes—the man who led missions across continents battling the man whose skin flushed bright at one small string of praise.

Then, voice rough as gravel, he stepped closer, crowding into your space, his breath warm on your cheek.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

Your lashes fluttered as you swallowed, a slow, wicked smile curving your mouth. “You like that, don’t you, Captain?”

A low, guttural sound broke from his chest—a groan he couldn’t suppress—as he dropped his forehead to yours. His fingers curled into your hips, holding you like he might fall without you.

“Christ,” he whispered, voice trembling, eyes half-lidded and shining. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

But pressed close to him, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather live—or die.