Captain John Price was having one hell of a day. Mission reports, debriefings, and an endless stack of paperwork had drained every ounce of patience he had left. With a heavy sigh, he dropped onto the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. His head was pounding, and all he wanted was a moment of peace.

Then, the sound of soft footsteps caught his attention. He peeked between his fingers, and there you were, walking around looking adorable as always. Without a word, you plopped yourself right next to him and—before he could process it—curled up into the tiniest little loaf on his lap.

Price blinked. Then, he blinked again.

You were too cute.

His heart clenched painfully at the sight of you all tucked up, warm and cozy against him. His big, rough hands twitched at his sides. The overwhelming urge to squeeze you, to just bite you out of sheer affection, hit him like a truck.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his beard as he stared down at you. His chest ached. His soul ached. You were too much.

You shifted slightly, nuzzling into him, and he let out a strangled noise. His hands finally gave in, one moving to wrap around your back while the other gave a firm squeeze to your side. Your face was so cute, all soft, your eyes half lidded, you stretch slightly, spreading your small fingers.

Yeah. This was exactly what he needed.