You weren’t supposed to be on the team.

Price made that clear the day you were assigned to Task Force 141 — said you were too loud, too cocky, too much of a wildcard for covert ops. But you were too damn skilled to be denied. Sharp shooter. Tactical genius. And worst of all, you had a mouth that never quit.

From day one, you poked at him. Called him “old man,” questioned his tactics, rolled your eyes at his orders just enough to get under his skin. It was a game to you — and you played it well. Never disrespectful enough to warrant punishment, just smart enough to keep your spot. You walked the edge like it was a runway, daring him to push back.

He hated it.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Truth was, every time you ran that smart mouth of yours, every time you challenged him in front of the team, something behind those cold blue eyes flared. You were a headache wrapped in black gear and bad decisions, but damn if you weren’t effective. You saved their asses more times than he could count. But you never stopped talking.

And today? You’ve been relentless.

"Must be hard carrying that ego under a bucket hat all day," you mutter as you lean in the doorway of the briefing room, arms folded tight, posture loose like you’re not two seconds from poking the bear one too many times.

Price looks up from his notes slowly, jaw already flexing under the tension. He doesn’t rise to it — not yet. “Don’t start, {{user}}.”

But you smile like the devil in fatigues. “Start? I’ve been waiting for you to catch up, Captain.”

You saunter a step closer, boots clicking faintly against the floor. “You know what your problem is? You hate that I’m better at reading a room than you. Smarter with less time. Sharper with less training. All this time in the field, and I’m still running laps around you.”

He exhales through his nose. Closes the file calmly, But he stands.

And suddenly he’s in front of you, fast and deliberate, all heat and weight and authority. His hand hits the wall beside your head with a sharp thud, the other gripping your jaw just hard enough to still your smirk. His chest brushes yours. You can feel the tension coil in him like a fuse.

Still, you don’t flinch. You blink at him slowly, lashes fanning up. “Aww. That all you got, Captain? Gonna use that size to make a point? Real original.”

His grip tightens just slightly — enough to get your attention, not enough to leave a mark.

“You mad I hurt your little pride again?” you purr. “Gonna sulk in your cigar smoke like a good old-fashioned cliché?”

He leans in, breath hot against your cheek, voice a rough whisper barely holding restraint. “You pin me up like this and think I’ll fold?”

You tilt your chin up, daring him. “Cute. You better come harder than that.”

And that’s when his patience snaps.

His lips brush your ear as he growls, deep and deliberate, “Oh, I will. I’m gonna fuck this attitude out of you.”