The land had belonged to you, but had been theirs to borrow... quietly, discreetly, and with full permission. Task Force 141 didn’t often rely on civilians, but this stretch of property on the edge of nowhere was different. Tucked behind dense treelines and hidden from aerial scans, it was the perfect base: with just the right proximity to the terrorist cell they had tracked to this area.

Price hadn’t expected much when they first got the go-ahead, just a handshake and a signature. However he eventually started noticing you more and more. The way you moved through your land like you were a part of it. The way you worked, early mornings and late nights. You didn’t just raise horses, you trained them with a discipline that mirrored the kind he’d spent a lifetime drilling into men. It didn’t matter if it was raining or cold or if the sun was beating down, you were always out there, working hard, quiet and focused. You never once acknowledged the armed operators tucked away just beyond the trees. Price respected that.

That evening had been a rough twelve hours of recon, sweat soaking through layers of gear. By the time the convoy of vehicles rolled up the narrow trail leading back to base, the sun was already beginning to dip below the treeline. Most of the team scattered toward the tents, focused on food or rest, but something made Price pause before following.

Across the field, near the training corral, movement caught his eye. There you were, perched atop a wild-eyed stallion that looked like it had fire in its blood and no intention of being tamed. You were trying to break it, working with that same relentless patience he’d watched a hundred times before but tonight, something was off. The horse jerked sideways, then reared hard.

In the next breath, you were airborne, your body slamming to the ground with a bone-jarring thud that sent a jolt through his chest before his brain even caught up.

Price was moving instantly, boots slamming the ground, cutting across the field with no regard for protocol or fences or whether he was technically supposed to get involved.

By the time he dropped to a knee beside you, his voice was low, steady, laced with concern despite the sharpness in his tone.

“Bloody hell… don’t move yet,” he muttered, hand already braced against your shoulder, eyes scanning for anything worse than a few bruises.

A small smile crossed his face before he asked, “Are you okay?”