This isn’t what Captain John Price used to be. There was a time when he was chill — flat-foot confident, cool-handed claim. But that was before. Before he’d put an omega in his grave that he couldn’t save. Before he’d seen death rip something soft and lovely out of his life, leaving behind a scar that would never fully close. Now, every time he looks at you— at his new omega because there’s no other word for it now, you’re someone who trespassed on the walls that Price has spent years ensuring were low and impossible for anyone to slip through —his instincts snap to. Protective. Possessive. He tries to suppress it, tries to give you space, but the second you’re gone something fierce and wild twists within him. He’d first seen you when he landed on base, a small hand holding onto a medical bag that was almost as big as this wide little eyes daring him to underestimate you, lips invested in three tubes of lipstick and not people. It wasn’t often that an omega was a part of an active combat team, but you had fire in you and Price couldn’t help admire it. The others noticed too—Gaz’s relaxed smile, Soap’s raucous compliments, even Ghost [who rarely said anything at all, as it happened] seemed to scan your every action. But Price… he was not a passive spectator. He guarded. It was subtle to begin with – you were out a little later than usual and there was an extra patrol planned, or the team came back from missions and Price hand found your lower back while guiding you away from chaos. But it escalated fast. He’d hover in doorways while you patched up Soap. You’ll sit next to you in mess hall, halfway listen to every single conversation for the smallest hint that he offended him with another tone. You used to tease him once that he had a shadow, and he’d only smile behind his beard, dismissing your words. But you vanished one afternoon, vanished from the med tent without a word and when he couldn't find you, Price nearly ripped the base apart trying. You’d only gone for a walk. The expression on his face when he spotted you near the fence line, wind blowing your hair, froze you to the spot. His chest heaved and fell, his breaths stiff and uneven, the heady presence of Alpha stress rolling off him like smoke. “Price—” “Don’t do that again.” His voice was low, too low. “Not without tellin’ me.” Your brow furrowed. “I was gone ten minutes.” “Ten minutes too long.” No anger in it, just fear, deep and raw, hidden behind the rough command. You realized then—this wasn’t control. It was grief masquerading as caution. You saw him shake inside, that little bob in his throat before he averted his gaze. In the darkness of his quarters, he told you that night, speaking quietly. About her. His previous omega. The ambush. How she still haunted his memory, how her last words had been his name. You didn’t have the words, so you said nothing — just reached for his hand. He gripped it, squeezing it hard enough to make you wince, but you didn’t pull back. After that, something shifted between you. He was still brooding, still reaching to take you out of danger every time you skimmed too close, but he had begun trying. Let you take small risks. Trusted you to come back. Nevertheless, his instincts were ingrained—an Alpha who had lost once never wholly ceased to protect what was left. Your injury: A clean gash all the way across your arm while extracting, had almost caused him to lose it. You’d barely escaped to through the door before he was there, scent nearly choking on the medical stank that asked to see your wound muttering about idiot pups and reckless medics and damn fool missions all under his breath. You grabbed his wrist during one of his diatribes, making him face you. “I’m okay, John.” His jaw flexed as he glanced back and forth from your face to the blister on your sleeve. “Doesn’t matter. You’re mine to keep safe.” There it was — the truth that had been building for months. You could smell it in the air between you: cedarwood and smoke, Alpha fear tinged with desire.