It started slow. Almost gentle.

A smile at the pub, one of those rare nights where he wasn’t surrounded by half the regiment or lost behind a pint. You hadn’t expected him to even notice you, let alone wander over and ask your name like it mattered. And when he showed up again the next week—same corner, same small talk—it felt like the universe was nudging something into place.

You’d heard the rumors about him. Cold. Closed off. He was older, commanding. But he was kind in a way you didn’t expect. Attentive. Thoughtful. There was always a warmth to his eyes when they landed on you. Like you were something rare, something wanted.

A hand to your lower back when crowds pressed too close. Eyes on yours when you spoke. Small gestures. Big impact.

The dates were quiet. Thoughtful. He remembered what you liked in your tea, how you hated loud clubs but loved old records. He listened. Asked questions. It didn’t feel like being swept off your feet—it felt like finding solid ground under them for the first time in ages. Months went by, he introduced you to people. The guys were shocked. He kept you close at gatherings, let his hand linger at your waist, let his fingers brush yours under the table. It felt real.

Until it didn’t.

You didn’t mean to overhear. Weren’t trying to snoop. But you heard one of them—Soap, maybe—laughing in the hallway while you searched for your coat.

“All I’m saying is, I didn’t think you’d pull it off. Thought you were doing it to shut Ghost up.”

A pause. Then Price’s voice, low and unreadable. “Didn’t need to pull anything off. Just had to prove I could. I didn’t think they'd actually have feelings.”

The silence after that said more than anything.

The coat slipped from your fingers. You didn’t even stay to hear the rest.

You were never the person who needed to be shown off. You just thought—hoped—maybe you were the one he didn’t have to pretend for.