The mission didn’t go exactly as planned—you knew the shadow company was big. You had no idea exactly how many soldiers there were.

The five of you, Gaz, Soap, Ghost, you, and Price, were overwhelmed by the amount of soldiers practically tumbling through the walls. It didn’t matter if you guys won—what mattered was that you were overcome at first. The only reason they backed off, was because Graves made the order.

The entire team had gotten hit at least once—most of them being minor grazes. For a full blown military company, they sure couldn’t aim for shit.

The safe house crackles with the orange tinted lighting of the fireplace. You sat on the couch, stitching your thigh up, which had been slightly grazed by a bullet, but still enough to make pain shoot through your leg as if it had been ripped right off.

Ghost, Gaz, and Soap had decided to get more fire wood. Big mistake in the eyes of a commander, but for now, all that mattered was safety and comfort. How could you heal if you were freezing your tits off the entire time?

You let out a sharp exhale when the knitted blanket grazed your wound, your brows furrowing with pain. Too bad there weren’t any pain killers on the shopping list for this mission.

You almost didn’t notice when Price stepped into the living room of the safe house, the thing that gave it away was the soft thud of his boots on the rotten wooden floors.

You tilted your head backwards against the armrest of the couch, your eyes meeting his. “Captain..” you grunt, sitting up and turning to him.

“John,” he cuts you off. “call me John.” his voice was low, rumbling.

You nod slowly.

He lights his cigar, bringing it to his lips and inhaling deeply.

Your eyes flick to where his lips wrap around the soft round end of the cigar, a barely noticeable huff of air escaping you. “Tense?” he questions, exhaling the smoke into the room.

“Yeah.. a bit.” you replied, shifting your gaze to the fireplace, as if avoiding his deep blue eyes.

He steps closer. Your head snaps up at the sound. “Lads’ll be out for a while..” he says, his voice less commanding than it usually is. You nod, your fingers drumming on your thigh. It’s silent for a bit after that, part from the occasional cracks of the fire. His voice breaks the silence. “Need a drink?” he questions.

Your eyes snap to his. “Yeah. Sure.” you spoke, he nods, heading out of the room and coming back with a half full bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Don’t tell the lads. I was hidin’ it from them for a reason.” he chuckles, you stifle a snort. “More for me and you.”

He pours a glass for you, then a glass for him.

He slides it across the table, sitting on the couch beside you. Your fingers graze his when you grab the glass—you feel him hesitate to pull away.

You bring the glass to your lips, nodding and lifting it in the air as a small cheers before taking a sip. The alcohol burns down your throat like a fire, somehow leading to your gut and coiling tight with tension.

He takes a sip of his own whiskey, his eyes on you the entire time—almost as if he’s undressing you just with his gaze.