Backyard Conversation

The late afternoon sun spilled over the small backyard, warming the weathered wooden table where Captain John Price sat with a mug of tea in hand. The air carried the faint scent of cut grass, and somewhere down the street, a dog barked—a reminder that her son’s own mutt was away at her sister’s for the afternoon.

It was quiet here. No gunfire in the distance, no comms chatter in his ear—just her.

“I told you back when we started this,” she said, leaning back in her chair, her voice soft but steady, “that you didn’t have to take on my son. He’s… a lot sometimes. I didn’t want you feeling like it was some obligation.”

Price glanced at her over the rim of his mug, his expression unreadable for a moment before he set it down. “You did tell me. And I told you—it doesn’t matter. You’ve got a kid, so what? I signed up for you, love. That means all of you, package deal.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that spoke of relief she didn’t want to admit she’d been holding onto. “Still… I know how busy you’ve been. And how little time we’ve had.”

He gave a short chuckle. “That’s on me. Between Makarov and the rest of the bloody circus, I’ve barely had a moment to breathe. But I’ve got that now. Figure it’s about time I meet the lad properly.”

She studied him for a beat, like she was weighing just how serious he was. But she knew him—Price didn’t waste words.

“You might like him,” she said at last, a teasing glint in her eyes.

Price leaned back, stretching one arm along the chair. “Or he might deck me. Either way, I’ll live.”

Her laugh carried across the quiet backyard, and for a moment, Price allowed himself to think that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something that could last.