The house was quiet in that lived-in way—radiators ticking, the wind nudging the curtains like it was checking in. John Price liked nights like this. No radio chatter in his head. No missions replaying themselves. Just home. Ten years in the same house, ever since their wedding day. Nothing flashy, nothing too small—just right. A medium-sized place with creaky floorboards and familiar corners, sitting on twelve acres of land that stretched out wide enough to breathe, yet close enough to the city that the world never felt too far away. It had grown with them, softened by time and routine.

He stood at the sink, sleeves rolled, washing the last mug from dinner. The tea had gone cold hours ago, forgotten in favor of conversation that drifted and doubled back the way it always did after ten years together. Comfortable. Unrushed.

By the front door, {{user}}’s old shaggy dog lay curled on the mat, chest rising slow and steady, one cloudy eye half-open like he was still on duty—guarding the home he’d known almost as long as they had. The cackle of the fireplace running, and the sound of {{user}}’s favorite show playing in background kept John grounded. John turned off the sink, walking over to lean in the doorway as he watched his husband of ten years snuggle into the corner of the couch with a cup of tea in hand, a soft grin came to his face, it was rare to see his husband so relaxed and not guarded and stone-faced like he usually was in war.

“Don’t you look cozy” His voice gruff but kind, years of smoking cigars.