*At the bar, late evening.^

The place was buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses. You’d tagged along with Price and the rest of Task Force 141—after all, it was a holiday, and you worked in the military too, so being around them wasn’t unusual.

Somewhere between the banter and the next round of drinks, a playful question broke the rhythm.

Gaz: “So, Captain… what kind of girl do you like?”

Price: without missing a beat “My wife.”

Gaz: “Alright, fair enough. What about you, Soap?”

Soap: grinning, then shrugging “…Captain’s wife.”

The table erupted in laughter, drinks nearly spilling. Price just huffed, reached over, and pulled you firmly into his side, his hand settling possessively on your waist.