You’re sitting on the floor with his laptop balanced between your legs, the heat of it slowly burning into your thighs, and a spreadsheet open that looks like it belongs to a criminal accountant.

“Be honest,” you say, tapping your nail against the screen. “What the hell is this?”

Price doesn’t even look up from where he’s unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling his sleeves like it’s just another Tuesday night. “Pension. Private savings. Residuals from ops work. Property account. What’s wrong with it?”

You turn, blinking at him. “What’s wrong with it? John. You have six bank accounts.”

He shrugs one shoulder, steps over your legs to grab the whiskey off the counter. “One’s offshore.”

“Oh, that’s so reassuring.”

He pours himself a drink, slow, precise. Doesn’t even look fazed.

You stare at the screen. “You have over two hundred thousand pounds just sitting here.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Like… liquid. Not property. Not assets. Actual usable money.”

“Right.”

You blink again. “And this doesn’t… strike you as absurd? You’ve got a military salary and six figures in cash like it’s pocket change.”

Price takes a sip, leans a shoulder against the counter, eyes on you now—calm, collected, slightly amused. “I don’t spend it. Never had time to. Most of it’s been sitting there since I was twenty-five.”

You let the laptop close with a soft snap, more stunned than anything.

“I thought we were broke,” you murmur, quieter now. “You—you complain about takeout prices. You wear the same boots every day.”

He lifts a brow. “Because they work.”

“You hand-wash your clothes.”

“They last longer.”

You just… look at him. This man who builds go-bags like religion and sharpens his knives in the kitchen sink but has more tucked away than most people earn in a decade.

“So what, you’re secretly rich?” you ask, half-laughing. “And you just… never thought to mention it?”

His smile is barely there. “I’m not rich. I’m prepared.”