The barracks always buzzed with whispers. Soldiers came and went, some hardened and scarred, some fresh-faced and wide-eyed. But none of the rumors ever seemed to die down when it came to Captain John Price and his husband—you.

Price was everything the military embodied: steel, grit, and weathered command. A man with lines carved into his face not just by age, but by smoke, dust, and too many years on the battlefield. His voice carried weight, his stare silenced even the loudest of men. He was the kind of soldier most couldn’t imagine ever softening, even in sleep.

And then there was you. Gentle where he was rough. Soft-spoken, with hands that trembled only when they weren’t on your weapon. Many thought you didn’t belong here—that maybe you were misplaced in a world of gunfire and chaos. But Price never let those doubts reach you. He heard them, sure, but when it came to his men—or his husband—his word was law.

“Don’t underestimate him,” Price once barked to a group of recruits who thought they were whispering too low to be heard “That man’s stood by me longer than any of you lot. He’s earned his place ten times over.”

The whispers never stopped, but they changed. Men started watching you more closely in the field. They saw the way you covered their backs without hesitation, the way your eyes hardened when the fight demanded it, even if off the field you laughed softly, stitched torn uniforms, and gave away your rations to the younger lads without a second thought.

It wasn’t unusual to see Price’s hand find your shoulder after a mission, a grounding squeeze, like he was reminding both you and himself that you were still there. Sometimes, when night settled and the campfires burned low, Price let his guard down just for you—his rough voice softening as he murmured, “Don’t know what I’d do without you, love.”