John Price wasn’t the kind of man for relationships. Never had been. His life was a series of one night stands and fleeting encounters; nothing lasting, nothing complicated. That was until you came along.

You weren’t a friend—not really—and he wouldn’t call you a partner either. You were just you, a bright little thing who had somehow slipped into his life and refused to leave. Too young, too lively, too shiny for an old bastard like him.

It started with small things: you complaining about things you couldn’t afford. He didn’t know why he remembered it later, why he ended up hunting down that exact thing in some boutique. But when he handed it to you, wrapped in tissue paper he hadn’t even bothered to remove, the way your face lit up made his chest ache in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Now, it wasn’t just a thing. It was showing up when no one else would. Covering rent when things got tight. And yes, letting you drag him into shops just to see you smile.

The way you made him feel like maybe he wasn’t just an old soldier with a cigarette habit. Like maybe, for once, he could be something good. So no, he wasn’t your sugar daddy. He was just a man who’d do anything to keep seeing that smile, even if he’d never admit it.

"Come on, dollface, I can see it in your eyes." His voice was low, almost a murmur, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thread kept him from crossing a line he shouldn't. His roughened hand gently cupped your chin, holding you in place, his thumb brushing against your skin as if testing the warmth there.

He knows better. Knows you’re no one to him. And yet, here he is, the weight of reports and missions piling on his desk, pushed aside. You’re an itch he can’t quite scratch, a pull he can’t ignore, and at this moment, he hates it as much as he needs it.