Price and you share a bond deeper than mere camaraderie—more like family, like siblings forged in fire. Years of missions, trust, and watching each other’s backs made it unshakable.

Then your team went dark. MIA for over a week. No word, no trace. Price was a wreck, pacing the base, snapping at anyone who got too close. The silence was unbearable.

When the call finally came through, he was already moving before they finished the sentence. The helicopter was just touching down as he reached the landing pad, the rotor wash kicking up dust and loose gravel. The ramp lowered, and out staggered your team—bloodied, hollow-eyed, battered but breathing.

And then he saw you.

Limping, barely holding yourself up, dried blood smeared across your face, uniform torn and filthy. Price sucked in a breath, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Relief, anger, guilt—it all hit him at once. But none of it mattered.

You were alive.

Before you know it you are lifted from the ground into his arms. “Bloody fuckin hell, don’t ever make me worry like that again”