Price wasn't a shy man. Not on the field. Not in front of his men. But standing in the bedroom of your shared home, freshly showered with a towel still around his neck and a hopeful itch under his skin… he felt like an awkward teenager again.

The bedroom door was cracked open, golden lamplight spilling through. You were in there, his spouse, his partner, his wife, as he liked to call you, no matter the details.

You were in the next room, curled up with a book, peaceful as ever. And him? He was pacing like a teenager in love for the first time, trying to draft a sentence in his head that wouldn’t sound like he’d lost all romantic instinct.

Should I text them? Write a note? How does one properly invite their wife to bed?

He paused mid-step, a grimace tugging at his lips. "Dearest wife, fancy a shag tonight?" He nearly choked on the thought. No. Absolutely not.

Still, the idea lingered like smoke. His ears burned. You always knew when he was hovering like this, caught somewhere between a war hero and a bashful fool. Maybe if he walked in and just kissed you. Or… maybe you’d take pity on him and invite him instead.

Either way, that towel wasn’t staying on long.