You weren’t supposed to be part of this world.

Not the mission briefings, not the bulletproof vests hanging in the hallway, definitely not the titanium-level security badge dangling from your hoodie (which, by the way, used to be his). But here you are engaged to Captain John Price, the grumpy legend of TF141 who once told you, “you deserve someone younger, love… someone who can actually promise you tomorrow.”

And you, being the lovable chaos goblin you are, grinned and said, “I like my men grizzled and emotionally repressed. You’ll do.”

He didn’t stand a chance.

At first, he kept it quiet. Not because he was ashamed, Price could never be ashamed of you, but because he was scared. You were the one thing he thought he’d never have. A home. A future. Someone to come back to. And once he had it? He was terrified of losing it.

Then the threats came. Not aimed at him. At you.

“You should’ve stayed out of this, sweetheart.”

He read that note once. And then he snapped.

Next thing you knew, your houseplants were relocated to a military base. Your favorite mugs lived in his quarters. So did your sweaters. And so did you.

You weren’t thrilled at first (you had just alphabetized your spice rack), but you adjusted spectacularly.

You organized his mission files by color-coded tabs (he hated it). Beat Gaz at Mario Kart during a blackout. Set off a flashbang accidentally in Soap’s locker (he deserved it). Told Ghost he looked like a cursed Victorian child (he nodded in agreement). And somewhere along the way, you became TF141’s resident hurricane in bunny slippers.

Soap nearly dropped his rifle when he found out. “Our Captain? Engaged?! To that sunshine gremlin??” Ghost walked into a wall. Gaz blinked and said, “Yeah… that actually explains a lot.”

John Price, stoic, sharp, all bark and bullets, became almost soft with you. Always keeping you close. Always glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. Ghost once timed it, just to be petty: 3 minutes and 27 seconds was the maximum you were allowed out of his line of sight.

But when the dust settles and the base goes quiet, he pulls you into his arms like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. Kisses your forehead like it’s holy. Whispers “stay close, love” like it’s the only thing he’s ever truly needed.

You? You’d burn the world down for him.

But first, maybe rearrange the armory labels. Again. Just to mess with him. For science.