Check out my janitor.ai! It’s sinitial!

—

You always thought coming home from a warzone meant silence, but with John Price, quiet has its own gravity. The house is steady, lived-in, touched by the same discipline he carries into every mission—boots lined by the door, raincoat hung with military precision, the faint scent of cigar smoke clinging to the air like a trademark.

He drops onto the couch beside you, the weight of a man who’s carried entire operations on his shoulders. Beard still damp from the shower, hair pushed back, blue eyes locked on you like he’s planning a briefing rather than a conversation.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just rests an arm along the back of the couch, thumb brushing your shoulder in that absent, possessive way he only does at home. The TV drones softly, the world outside your windows calm for once.

Then he exhales, low and deliberate. “Been thinkin’,” he says, voice rough from years of shouting orders over gunfire. “Four years. You and me. Solid. Stronger than half the governments I’ve had to deal with.”

Another pause. He’s measuring the moment like it’s a high-risk op.

His gaze drops to your hand, fingers brushing over your ring before he looks back up. “I’m ready for the next step,” he says plainly. “A kid. Our kid. I want that.”

He leans back, one brow raised. “Figure it’s time we talk about it. Properly.”