The first time he met you, Price assumed you were someone’s assistant.

Too cheerful. Too warm. Your lanyard sat crooked across your chest as you introduced yourself in the hallway with a smile so bright it made his temple twitch. "I'm the new intel analyst for the 141," you'd chirped. You extended your hand with nails painted soft pink and lids dusted in shimmer.

He blinked, shaking your hand with a low grunt and a look that bordered on skeptical.

Someone, he figured, had made a mistake.

But it wasn’t a mistake.

You were sharp. Sharp in ways that mattered. Your reports were clean, forecasts brutal in their accuracy. You flagged risks before they even hit satellite. You asked the right questions. Anticipated the unspoken ones. Always a step ahead with pastel highlighters and glitter pens, a cup of tea in hand and your unshakeable sunshiney aura.

You worked like someone who’d seen the worst and refused to let it harden you.

And that—that—was what got under his skin.

You annotated mission briefs with neat little tabs, color-coded, no less. Left notes like “Careful, love, this area’s spicy!” or “Tell Soap he still owes me coffee.” You once brought lemon muffins to a debrief.

He didn’t know whether to lecture you or thank you.

But then came the briefing.

Big op. High tension. Brass in the room, Laswell at the head, Ghost at your side. You stood up front, steady and confident, presenting the sat feed breakdown with your usual precision. Until an older colonel let out a breath that was more sneer than sigh.

"Maybe if the intel wasn’t wrapped in lip gloss and glitter pens, we’d have something worth acting on."

The room stilled. A pin-drop hush, immediate and brittle.

You didn’t flinch. Just turned another page in your file, lips pressed in a calm, professional line.

But Price saw the shift. A flicker at the edge of your expression, like something inside you had been quietly bruised.

He straightened in his seat. Spoke low and even. “Bit rich, coming from a man who’s never once delivered actionable intel without a five-day delay and a half-baked excuse.”

Eyes turned. The colonel stiffened. Laswell glanced up, expression unreadable but not unsupportive.

Price didn’t blink. “She’s the reason we’re ahead of this thing. If you’re more concerned about lipstick than data, you’re not just out of line—you’re in the way.”

A ripple moved across the room. Some tension broke and you stood a little taller.

You didn’t thank him, not there. Just nodded and finished the brief like nothing happened.

Later, in the hallway, you passed him with a quiet, “Appreciate the backup, Captain.”

He gave a small nod. “You held your ground. That’s what I needed from you.”

You smiled, just a little, and walked off.

He kept walking, exhaled slowly, and muttered under his breath, “Glitter pens, my arse.”