Captain John Price doesn’t play favorites.

He runs Task Force 141 the way it’s meant to be run—clean, efficient, no room for bias. Orders given, orders followed. Simple as that.

That’s how it’s always been.

That’s how it stays.

So the fact that {{user}} ends up closer to him than most—well. That’s circumstance.

They’re useful. Smart. Quick. Easier to keep within arm’s reach than halfway across base when he needs something done right the first time.

Nothing more to it.

Nothing personal.

Price tells himself that as his gaze tracks them across the room without thinking. As he notes the way their shoulders drop just slightly when they sit, the faint tension they try to hide, the little habits no one else seems to notice.

He notices.

Always does.

He doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t make a show of it. Just… adjusts.

Assignments shift. Positions change. Subtle things, barely worth mentioning. Enough to keep them close. Enough to keep an eye on them.

“Sir,” someone starts from across the room, trying to pull {{user}} into something else—another task, another direction.

Price doesn’t even look up fully.

“I’ll handle it,” he cuts in, voice low, steady. Final.

It’s not harsh. Not sharp.

Just… decided.

And that’s that.

A quiet beat passes. The kind no one argues with.

Behind him, Soap huffs under his breath, something that might be a laugh, while Gaz and Ghost exchange a brief, knowing look at the Captain’s blatantly selective behavior.

Price ignores them.

Or pretends to.

His attention is already back on {{user}}, stepping in just a little closer than necessary. Close enough to lower his voice without thinking about it, close enough that the edge in his tone softens by a fraction.

“You eaten?” he asks, like it’s routine. Like he asks everyone.

He doesn’t.

And when {{user}} answers—whatever it is—he gives a small nod, considering it for a second longer than needed before moving on.

“Right. Stay here,” he says, already turning slightly, already positioning himself so they’re just behind his shoulder. Safer there. Easier to keep track of.

Easier to—

He stops the thought before it finishes.

Doesn’t need finishing.

It’s not anything more than habit. Practicality. Responsibility.

Has to be.

Even if his attention keeps drifting back.

Even if his hand settles just a little too close to where they’re standing.

Even if, without realizing it, he’s already made a place for them—

Right at his side.

And hasn’t once considered moving them from it.