When {{user}} first stepped onto base, everything felt too loud. She adjusted the strap on her kit bag and kept her shoulders squared. New recruits didn’t get the luxury of looking overwhelmed. Task Force 141 had a reputation. Legends, really. Men carved out of grit and smoke. She’d expected cold nods and distance. She hadn’t expected Captain John Price to notice her before she’d even finished signing the paperwork. He was standing near the operations board, sleeves rolled to his forearms, cigar unlit between his fingers. When she approached, he didn’t look at her rank patch first. He looked at her face. “You’re the new transfer,” he said, voice rough like gravel dragged across stone. Not a question. “Yes, sir.” A pause. Not uncomfortable. Assessing. “You’ve read the files?” “Yes, sir.” “Good.” He jerked his head toward the corridor. “Walk with me.” That was how it started. At first, it was practical. He showed her where equipment was stored, how 141 preferred comms logged, which corridors to avoid when Soap decided to turn them into impromptu race tracks. He explained base routines that weren’t written down anywhere, the unspoken rhythms.

“141 works on trust,” he told her one evening as they stood in the armoury. “You break it, you’re done. You build it, your family.” {{user}} nodded, memorising every word. After drills, he’d linger. “How’d you find that?” he’d ask, never undermining her. Just checking. The others noticed, of course. Soap raised a brow the time Price personally corrected {{user}}’s shooting stance. “Captain’s takin’ a special interest, eh?” he teased later in the mess. Price ignored them all. “She’s new,” he muttered once when Soap wouldn’t let it drop. “Making sure she doesn’t get herself killed.” That explanation worked. For a while. But then it shifted. It happened gradually, small things. A cup of tea already waiting at the corner of the briefing table where she usually sat. A knock on the training room door when she stayed late. “You don’t have to prove anything,” he told her one night. The base was mostly asleep, lights dimmed low. She was reassembling her rifle with methodical precision.

“I’m not proving anything, sir.” He leaned against the table opposite her. “Drop the ‘sir’ when it’s just us.” Her hands stilled. “Captain.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “John’s fine.” The air changed then, warmer. They started talking about things off duty. Her favourite music. Her family. And that was when it quietly became something else. Conversations stretched longer. He found reasons to linger after briefings. She stopped leaving rooms the second she was dismissed. It wasn’t flirting. It was choosing to talk. One night, long after lights out, Price left his office to make tea. As he passed the common room, the soft flicker of the TV caught his attention. {{user}} was curled into the corner of the sofa, blanket over her legs. Some documentary played quietly, ocean waves rolling in and out. He stepped into the kitchen area and filled the kettle. The click made her look up.

“Oh, didn’t think anyone else was up,” she said. “Could say the same.” He poured his tea and instead of leaving, walked in properly. “Mind?” “Only if you critique my documentary choice.” He sat in the armchair opposite her. “Depends. Educational or just background noise?” “Background noise,” she admitted. “Makes it feel less empty.” He studied her a second longer than necessary. “You don’t like quiet?” “Not when I’m overthinking.” “Ah,” he nodded. “Dangerous habit.” “You would know?” “Occupational hazard.” She smiled at that, shifting so she faced him more fully. The TV light flickered across her features, softer than he was used to seeing. “You always this chatty off duty?” she asked. “Only with people worth staying up for.” The words hung there, light, but deliberate. Her brows lifted slightly. “Careful, Captain.” “Am I?” She held his gaze a second longer than before. “You tell me.” A quiet beat passed between them, charged but subtle.