"You shouldn't smoke." Price admonishes softly, nevermind his own hypocrisy, startling you out of your depressive reverie.

It's Christmas break—and yet, here you are, smoking out in the knee-deep snow on the training field. In the middle of the night, no less.

You had no one to go home to, so it left you cloistered away on the base, deeming it far better than your lifeless apartment in the city.

"You should go inside," he entreats lowly, coming to stand at your side, his expression hidden.