The night was quiet, for once. No gunfire. No orders barked over comms. Just the low hum of generators and the occasional scuff of boots against gravel. Out past the perimeter lights, the world was nothing but desert blackness. Inside the tent, it was cooler, shadows draped over everything like a heavy quilt. You found him leaning against a crate outside, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with dirt and gun oil. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, the ember glowing like a small, steady heartbeat. He hadn’t noticed you yet. “Didn’t know you smoked,” you said, stepping closer. “I don’t. Not usually.” His voice was gravel-soft, like the scratch of vinyl in an empty room. You watched him bring the cigarette to his mouth, lips brushing the filter like he’d done it a thousand times. Maybe he had. Maybe you didn’t know everything about Price after all. “Rough op,” you said. “Mm.” A drag. Exhale. Smoke curled from his nose and mouth in pale, lazy ribbons. “Could’ve gone worse.” You didn’t respond. You stood close enough to smell the smoke, but not so close it felt like a touch. He didn’t look at you—just kept his gaze fixed on the desert, unreadable. “Gonna share?” you asked, not because you wanted the cigarette, but because you wanted the moment. Him. Anything. He glanced at you then, a flick of blue eyes under his brows. “Didn’t think you smoked either.” “I don’t,” you echoed, softer. That got a real smile out of him—wry and quick, gone before it fully landed. He offered the cigarette anyway, but not with his hand. He took a drag, held it between his lips, and leaned in. A silent question in his eyes. You leaned in, too. Your mouth met his—not a kiss, not yet. Just your lips brushing the filter, his breath warm against your cheek. You took the cigarette with your lips, eyes locked on his, and pulled in a drag. Smoke filled your lungs and heat bloomed in your chest, but it had nothing to do with the tobacco. He let the moment stretch, his face inches from yours. Then, slow as dusk, he tilted his head and kissed you. There was no fanfare to it. No explosive urgency. Just the quiet press of his mouth to yours, lips firm, steady, tasting of ash and desert wind. You exhaled smoke through your nose as you kissed him back, letting it curl around both of you like a secret. When he pulled away, it wasn’t far. His forehead touched yours. “Always knew you were trouble,” he murmured. “You kissed me,” you replied. He smiled again. This one stuck. The cigarette was forgotten, smoldering between your fingers. You took one more drag and flicked it away into the sand, then cupped his jaw, rough with stubble, warm under your palm. He let you hold him there. Price was a man of control—tight, disciplined, professional. But in this moment, under the weight of the stars and the scent of smoke, he let himself be soft. For you. “What happens now?” you asked, voice barely above the breeze. “That’s up to you,” he said. “But I’ll tell you this.” “What?” He leaned in again, brushing your lips with his. “I’ve got more cigarettes.” You laughed, breathless. He kissed you again. This time, there was no smoke between you.