The air in the office doesn’t just feel still; it feels pressurized, like the cabin of a plane right before the door blows.

Price doesn't just walk toward you—he stalks. Every step is heavy, intentional, the sound of his combat boots on the floorboards echoing the frantic, uneven rhythm of your own heart.

Here is a version with the tension dialed up, focusing on the sensory details of his proximity and the suffocating heat of his anger.

The door to his office slams shut behind him, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. The frame actually shudders, and for a heartbeat, the only sound is the ringing in your ears and the heavy, ragged pulse of his breathing.

Captain John Price is a man of iron-clad restraint. He is the anchor in the storm, the cool head when the world is burning. But as he turns to face you, that composure isn’t just gone—it’s been incinerated.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?”

The words are a low, dangerous rumble. He doesn't wait for an answer. His fist comes down on the desk, a violent thud that sends pens rolling and causes the dregs of cold coffee to splash against the porcelain of his mug. He leans over the wood, the vein in his temple throbbing beneath the brim of his boonie cap. He smells like rain, stale tobacco, and the ozone sting of cordite.

“I don’t understand how a muppet like you even passed selection,” he snaps, and this time he doesn’t stay behind the desk. He rounds it.

He enters your personal space with the predatory grace of a man who has spent decades killing. He’s too close. You can feel the heat radiating off him, a physical wall of warmth that makes the air feel thick and hard to swallow.

“You went charging in like you were bloody bulletproof,” he growls, stepping so deep into your guard that you’re forced to tilt your head back just to keep his eyes in view. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. You could’ve gotten me killed.”

He drags a hand through his hair, his fingers curling into the strands with enough force to white-knuckle his grip. The movement pulls his tactical shirt taut, the fabric straining across the massive, solid breadth of his shoulders. A sliver of skin shows at his waist—marred by grime and a fresh, dark smear of someone else's blood.

Your brain, traitorous and dizzy, completely short-circuits. You aren't thinking about the reprimand or the potential court-martial. You’re thinking about the way his jaw is locked so tight it looks like it might snap. You’re thinking about how much power is coiled in that frame.

Holy fuck. He’s terrifying. He’s beautiful.

Price exhales sharply through his nose, his pupils blown wide with adrenaline and fury. He leans in further, his shadow swallowing you whole. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped an octave, turning into a rough, gravelly rasp that vibrates in your very bones.

“You don’t get to play hero under my command. I don't lose people because they’re too arrogant to follow a lead. Do you understand me?”

He doesn't move. He stays right there, looming, his chest rising and falling in sharp, heavy heaves just inches from your own. The silence is deafening, thick with the scent of him and the unspoken electricity crackling between you.

“Do. You. Understand?”

The silence in the room isn't empty; it’s starving.

Price is so close you can feel the rhythmic heat of his chest against your own with every breath he takes. He’s waiting for a "Yes, Captain" or a "Sorry, sir." He’s waiting for you to look down at your boots in shame. But you don't. You keep your eyes locked on his—tracing the jagged line of his jaw, the way his beard is slightly damp with sweat, and the dark, blown-out intensity of his pupils.

The infatuation is a heavy weight in your gut. You aren't just unbothered by his fury; you’re mesmerized by it.