Morning comes back to her in sharp, humiliating pieces.
Dry mouth. A pounding skull. The weight of an arm draped over her waist.
She knows before she looks.
Still, she looks.
John Price is asleep beside her, beard shadowed, breath slow and even, like he didn’t just become the biggest mistake of her career. His dog tags rest against her shoulder, cool metal branding the moment into her skin.
Commander. Rival task force. His rival.
She bolts upright, the movement making him grunt. Shame hits harder than the hangover—hot, immediate, vicious. This wasn’t just unprofessional. This was catastrophic.
She scrambles for her clothes, hands shaking despite years of combat control.
“Christ,” she mutters. “I really did that.”
Price’s eyes open. Sharp instantly, like he never really sleeps.
“Well,” he says, voice rough. “Morning.”
She doesn’t answer. Won’t look at him.
“That’s it?” he adds, amused. “Not even a debrief?”
“Don’t,” she snaps. “This never happened.”
That earns a quiet chuckle.
“Sure,” he says. “If that helps you sleep.”
She’s gone before he can say anything else, spine ramrod straight, dignity held together by sheer force of will.
The holding against her starts almost immediately.
At the first joint briefing, Price is the picture of professionalism—until he looks at her.
“Commander,” he says evenly. Then, just for her, “You look… tired.”
Her jaw tightens. “Focus on the op, Captain.”
“Oh, I am.” His eyes linger half a second too long. “Very focused.”
It’s never blatant. Never enough to call out.
A pause before he answers her over comms. A quiet “Careful, love,” slipped through a hot mic he knows only she’s listening to. A faint smirk when she outmaneuvers him tactically—like he knows something the room doesn’t.
And she does start acting weird.
Her team notices first in the small things.
She stops joining them for post-op drinks. Snaps at her XO for asking routine questions. Freezes—just for a heartbeat—any time Price’s voice comes over shared comms.
Her second-in-command catches her staring at a map she’s already memorized.
“You good, ma’am?” he asks carefully.
She blinks. “Fine.”
But she isn’t.
During a joint urban op, it finally bleeds through.
She overcorrects—reroutes her squad unnecessarily just to avoid crossing Price’s unit. Misses a timing window she never would’ve missed before.
“Commander,” her comms officer says quietly, “Price’s team is waiting on us.”
There’s a pause. Too long.
“…Tell them to hold,” she says.
Her sniper murmurs, “That’s not like her.”
After the op, her team corners her in their staging area. No rank, no posturing—just people who’ve followed her into hell.
“Ma’am,” her medic says, gentle but firm, “you’ve been off for weeks.”
Her XO crosses his arms. “You flinch every time Price opens his mouth. Did something happen?”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Commanders don’t confess. Leaders don’t slip. Rivals don’t end up in each other’s beds.
“It’s nothing,” she says sharply. “Drop it.”
They don’t look convinced.
Later that night, as she reviews footage alone, there’s a knock on the door.
She knows who it is before she answers.
Price leans in the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.
“Your people are worried,” he says. “That’s new.”
She stiffens. “You don’t get to comment on my command.”
He studies her for a long moment.
“You’re letting it mess with your head,” he says quietly. “That night.”
Her shame spikes into anger. “You’re the one who won’t let it go.”
His jaw tightens just a fraction.
“I’m holding you to it,” he replies. “To the fact you felt something and ran.”
Silence stretches.
Finally, he steps back.
“Sort yourself out, Commander,” he says. “Because your team can see it. And next time… the enemy will too.”
The door closes.
She sinks into her chair, hands shaking now that no one can see.
For the first time since she took command, the thing threatening her unit isn’t the rival task force—
It’s what happened after last call.