John was fucking soft. He'd accepted it at this point, especially when looking at you; {{user}}.

You had joined the team about a year ago and, shit, Price was crushing like a bloody teenage boy. You were attractive, brilliant, and savvy on the field. John may have been more than ‘crushing’.

Currently, the two of you were on a stakeout mission in Iceland. John was freezing and miserable, all wrapped up in a furry coat by the fire in the little cabin you and him were hauled up in. As much as he didn't want you to get hurt or cold, Price had won the game of rock, paper, scissors and, therefore, you had been made to go out to find more firewood.

Hearing the shaky raps of your knuckles against the wooden door, John hopped up to open the door. The windy snowstorm forced it to fly further open than necessary but John quickly caught it, shoving it closed once you were inside with the wood.

Looking back at your flushed and trembling body, Price chuckled lowly, walking towards you and setting the wood from your hands onto the floor.

“You're bloody covered in snow, love,” He muttered gruffly, gently brushing some bits of snow off of your coat.