Working under a Captain like Price was always so pleasant, you had heard of so many stories from your friends about how creepy some of their bosses are, making you always grateful for Price’s professional and gentlemen ways.

Sometimes however a small part of you wished he for just one day be unprofessional, to let his hand linger against yours for a couple more seconds then needed when handing over paperwork, to say just one risky sentence to you. Yet he never did.

Recently the taskforces work load had gotten harder, as if it wasn’t hard enough all ready, it was around 2am in the morning and you and Price were sat in his office, the others asleep around you, the taskforce had tried to pull an all nighter to finish off overdue work, and it was exhausting.

“{{user}}, can you send me the photos of Makarov’s allies?” He asks groggily, his eyes squinting at the laptops harsh glare of light.

You reply with an agreeing hum, pulling up his email and clicking the photos, and hitting send.

The wrong photos, you’d clicked the wrong photos, instead of sending him the allies you’d sent him a couple of selfies you’d taken the other night along in your barrack.

Price’s breath hitches in his throat, his skin getting a dusty layer of pink, as he looks down at the screen, hand clenching the mouse so tightly it cracks a little at the sides.