#ndilyd

"Got nothing to do with my position, love." He thinks on it for a moment before he clucks his tongue and concedes. "Alright, only partly. Don't deflect, asked you a question." The gaze that flickers back over to you is filled with both intent and intensity.

"I said I'm okay, and I am, mostly, but..." You struggle to find your words, or rather, just how many of them to let tumble free. Will John find it silly, the way a simple social gathering has your mind reeling?

"Hmm?" He prompts, no impatience to his tone, just clear care and interest.

You take a deep breath, let out a soft sigh. "Just a little nervous, like you said. It's been a quiet day, and such a nice one too..."

John's eyes catch yours, before darting away just as quickly, content to focus on the car in front. "Enjoyed yourself then? Worried you'd be too bored." The drum of his fingers on the wheel doesn't escape your attention, even if the emotion behind them does.

"I did enjoy myself, sitting in relative silence with my favourite grumpy SAS captain is my idea of peak fun." You tease, hoping the levity distracts from the depth of your sentiment.

"Wasn't grumpy." John grumbles, adding irony to his words, though there's still a lightness behind his eyes.

"You were, just a little." It's not hard to recall the deep scowl on his face on more than one occasion throughout the day. It makes sense, you suppose, the job, the atmosphere—that's probably all it was, but still your anxiety lingers.

"Was it because of me?" You ask, voice whisper-soft.

John's blues are fixed on you intently then, his gaze sincerely shocked. "Never because of you, darling girl." He rushes to correct your misconception, and punctuates his words with a hand that settles on your knee. 

His touch burns, and a shudder passes across your sensitive skin.

"You brightened the place up, glad I dragged you along." He smiles sweetly and pulls his hand back to the gears before you can grow too used to his touch.

"Oh." You utter, momentarily reeling from both his touch and words. "But you didn't drag me, I was happy to be there."

"Happy to be here too?" He asks, timing perfect as the car pulls into the pub car park.

"By your side, yes." You answer instantly, the words coming easily. "But I get the sense things are going to get a bit lively, so expect a slightly tipsy Bunny before long." You laugh softly, hoping to breathe some lightness back into the situation—for both yours and John's sake.

"That right?" He fixes you with a look as he turns to throw his arm over the back of your car seat. 

"Mhmm." You hum, just a touch distracted as you watch him reverse into the space. "Drinking with the big boys, I gotta keep up, right?" 

"You can certainly try, love. 'll be there to look after you when it all goes tits up, hmm?" He chuckles, and your heart warms. 

The idea of getting so plastered you need babysitting is horrific, but just a touch of babying—a shoulder to lean on, an arm to cling to, the thought appeals to you more than it should.

"Lucky me." You say, only a touch sarcastically.

John turns off the engine, and you make sure your phone and purse are right where you need them.

"I'm ready to head in, if you are?" 

"Not yet, love." He replies, settling in like you're not leaving the car anytime soon. He shifts slightly, turning toward you with a look that balances severity and concern. "We can go home right now if you need, just say the word."

You swallow as the words hit you, because you know he truly means it. Even at the last second, if you were to decide you couldn't face what awaits you, he'd take care of it all—take you home, calm you down, handle the excuses.

"No, no, it's fine." You shake your head. You don't want to bottle it, for both your sake and John's. You're a big girl, you can do this, you tell yourself. 

John looks upon you skeptically, seemingly unconvinced. 

"You need anything, you let me know." His brow arches as he tries to convey the importance of this command. "Nothing to worry about. The lads like you, and anything crosses a line, it'll be sorted, hmm?" 

"Okay." You nod, convinced for a moment, but then the fear settles in your chest again. "Just, what if they suddenly decide they don't like me anymore?" 

"Don't think their taste is that shit." John jokes before turning serious again. "You saw how Kyle and Johnny were over you." 

With that, John finds the heart of the issue that you hadn't even yet found yourself. 

Johnny and Kyle were surely less trusting than they appeared, but they were at least friendly. Simon is a much, much tougher nut to crack.

"...And Simon?"

John takes a second to think on it, assessing the best way to address your worry.

"Wouldn't keep showing up if he had something against you, love." His smile is subtle, soft, and he reaches out again, hand settling atop where yours rest in your lap. "You're good, 'm right here for whatever you need. The second you want to leave, we're going."

You nod again, but now with a smile, letting the wave of reassurance wash over you. "Thank you."

"S'alright." He nods before climbing out of the car first, heading to your door, as is routine, to open it for you.

"Let's get this over and done with, yeah?" He huffs, though he can't fight the smile that tugs at his lips.

"Okay, old man." You giggle as you climb out of the car and take your place alongside him.

You'll never stop finding his disgruntled dad act thoroughly amusing.

The pub itself seems nice enough, a charming, Tudor-style exterior with a nice beer garden and a mix of clientele. 

The inside is full of character too, with all the pub staples—wooden tables with a mix of different chairs, a cosy fireplace, and a dated, patterned carpet. The atmosphere isn't unwelcoming, and there's a steady stream of chatter and cheer. The heady smell of hops filling your nose and the fear of social embarrassment are the only things that make you want to turn tail and run, because with John's reassurance, you actually feel hopeful that everything might turn out the way it's supposed to.

—-

"There they are!" Johnny's booming voice greets you and John as you head to the back of the pub, where the boys sit waiting at the booth seats—two eager expressions, and one decidedly neutral. 

The ghost of John's touch burns at your back, just as it has all day, unwavering even now as he guides you toward his men like you're a natural extension of himself, like his hand belongs there and always has.

You stop just short of the table, eyeing up the empty pint glasses that have already piled up.

"Hope you haven't gotten too drunk without us." You tease as you slide into the booth uncertainly and shuffle around until you're next to Kyle. 

"Not at all." He offers a charming smile that immediately relaxes you, and between his warmth and John's on your other side, you settle right in the best you can.

As you and John make yourself comfortable, Simon nudges Johnny out of the booth and stands. "What you having?" 

He looks to John, who simply looks at you wordlessly, gaze fixated.

"A gin and lemonade would be great, thank you." You answer with a smile, heart buzzing with warmth that Simon is fetching you a drink. Your eyes flicker from him to John, as you expect the man beside you to follow up with his order. Instead, his eyes are still fixed on you. "John?" 

He blinks, once, twice, before turning back to Simon. "Just the usual, Si, cheers." He says with a sharp nod of acknowledgement, as Simon disappears toward the bar.

Strange, you muse to yourself. Your mind starts to wander, curious as to what drew John's attention, and yet your own is pulled toward Kyle as he falls into easy conversation. 

"Enjoyed your tour of the base then?"

The scenes from the day flash through your mind—John's moods, how one moment he was short and the next sweet, and yet how he made you feel so welcome, like you belonged. Even though he had a job to do, had to stay focused and on-task for most of the day, he still prioritised your comfort, still wiped that grumpy look off his face to offer you a smile or create a moment of joy.

John is the only thing that sticks out from the day, the details of the base or the new people you met blurring into nothing. He's your focus, the centre of it all. 

So, despite Kyle's question, you can't utter a single word about what made today so special.

"Saw some sights, saw the mighty Captain Price at work, even listened to him try to explain his IT issues on the phone. Big day, unforgettable." You keep your tone light, jovial, almost laddish in the way you tease, anything to disguise your girlish crush.

Johnny and Kyle laugh, and a wave of relief washes over you at the idea that you played it off... even if you did still end up mentioning only John. 

John grunts from beside you, a disgruntled noise tearing from his throat at the mention of his tech issue. "Didn't become a soldier to sit behind a desk and do reports. Doubly so with a bloody computer that never works." He shakes his head, as his usual control of every situation was shaken in the face of an IT update that fucked everything up.

"Yer just old." Johnny jibes, poking fun at his captain. 

Kyle shrugs, coming to John's defense, and you watch on with amusement. "Our IT is shit, Johnny." 

"Aye true, but anything for a jab."

John is unfazed by the teasing, a steadfast oak battered by the wind, and yet his branches barely shake—he's even more unaffected when Simon returns with a pint for him. 

The amber liquid looks ice cold, condensation sliding down the glass and twinkling in the light. Despite knowing the horrid taste, it almost looks tempting. Maybe you could begin to understand why John is so fond of it, but the gin and lemonade that Simon sets in front of you looks far more appealing.

"Thanks, Simon," John speaks for you both, and you offer the blonde a bright smile, not feeling the urge to offer anything further.

"No problem." He nods at you as he takes his seat, now trapping Johnny between him and Kyle.

There's a beat of silence where you all sip, enjoying your drinks. Your gaze slips over your glass to John, whose thick fingers envelop the shiny glass. He takes it to his lips, gulping down the beer like a man, and the sight does nothing to quench your own thirst.

"So, now you're all free and single, you getting back on the dating scene?" Kyle brings the conversation back on track with ease.  

You struggle to tear your eyes away from John, but you know that you need to. You're curious as to his reaction, eager to sense any potential discomfort, but your need to save face overrides your eagerness to observe him. Being asked about why you're staring would be less uncomfortable than this line of questioning, surely.

After all, the thought of dating makes you shiver.

In a sense, your mind still hasn't caught up to the fact that you are, in fact, free and single. You haven't really thought about dating, getting laid, moving on.

Your mind has been so preoccupied settling into your new little domesticity with John, playing house with him, and developing an unfortunate fucking crush on him. 

It was nice, for a time, being lulled into this new reality, a life by John's side, but you know deep down it's all an illusion. A life with John is not your destiny, regardless of how much he already feels like home.

Dating is a good idea, really, a way to move on from such a silly little fantasy that threatens your friendship, your paternal connection with John.

"I'm not really in a hurry to go down that route..." You begin, then recall your last Tinder experiences before James and how exhausting they were. "Dating apps are a fucking nightmare." 

"Aye, we're well aware." Johnny chimes in with a nod from Kyle and a look of disbelief from you.

"What? You guys are the kinds that get loads of matches." You gasp. 

Two attractive men, so charming too, there's no way they are struggling. 

"Still doesn't make it easy." Kyle shrugs.

The thought of them not getting laid easily enough for their liking makes you giggle. "Neither does being a woman; it's just a sexual harassment simulator." 

They both have the decency to look solemn; both John and Simon's jaws tick. 

The sombre moment doesn't last, with a flicker of mischief twinkling in Kyle's eyes. "We could vet your matches for you."

"Stop encouraging her." John finally chimes in on the conversation with a snappy command, a disgruntled look painted on his features. 

Your stomach twists at his paternal protection, his urge to keep you safe and out of harm's way. 

"Caps just mad cause he's not on the apps." Kyle barks a laugh. "Probably hasn't got laid in ages either."

Oh fuck. 

You try not to think about that, about the idea of John trying to get laid, about how long it's been since he last fucked. Has it been as long as you? Longer? 

Shit. 

"Ooh, now there's an idea." You perk up, an idea for deflection striking you, just seconds before the realisation hits of the double entendre. "The apps, I mean!"

Encouraging John to date is the perfect distraction from your feelings, at least for everyone else—your chest tightens, your stomach sinks. The mere suggestion of John finding someone, wanting someone, is like a knife to your gut. 

The idea of him with a woman feels wrong, on so many levels.

As long as you've known him, John has been unattached, or at least as far as you know. His life has always been work, James, and you. 

Him dating would change that, shift the balance, steal his attention until he no longer has time for you and only has time for her.

John dating is a horrible idea.

And you know you're not the only one who hates it. John chokes back his pint, harsh elevens forming between his brows, and if you were looking at anyone else, you'd swear he was pouting. "Not a chance in hell." 

Johnny whines like his Christmas has just been cancelled and he was told the tooth fairy isn't real. "Aww, c'mon, a love making profiles." He fixes his captain with his signature puppy-dog look, aqua blue eyes sparkling and pretty lashes fluttering.

John simply shrugs, brushing it off, "Prefer the old-fashioned approach."

You almost swoon at his fondness for traditional courtship, the romantic notion of it, the quietly confident masculinity it exudes. 

Were circumstances different, would that be how it had played out between you both? A traditional meet-cute, attraction at first interaction—heated gazes across a coffee shop, two hearts connecting through an exchange of letters.

Your mind even flickers to thoughts of a dream long gone, one that had seemed so silly and insignificant at the time, and just a touch awkward. 

An alternate universe where James only existed as a stray thought, lucidity poking through the hazy edges of your brain's deep imagination. 

There, it was just you and John, a fateful introduction between a Lord and a young lady.

Only a few gulps into your drink, and your head is already spinning, heady off of the strong pour of the bartender and the newfound highs and lows of attraction.

Johnny smirks, simply taking the challenge in stride. "Don't mind wing manning either, someone caught your eye?" He glances around, looking for any woman in John's sightlines.

"Drop it." John grunts, and the edge to his voice betrays the way his temper is rising. He takes another long sip of his drink before he rises. "Going for a piss."

"Bet it's that burd at the bar." Johnny cheers, making sure it reaches John's ears.

You watch him walk away, the usual sway to his hips absent as he marches to the bathroom with a storm cloud hanging over him. You can't help but be transfixed, eyes trailing over the way his broad shoulders taper down into his waist, making his combat trousers look far too delicious as they stretch over his arse.

Johnny whispers conspiratorially in Simon's ear, their gazes fixed on the woman leaning into the bar. She's nothing like you, every feature almost the opposite of what you possess in a way that's beyond ignoring—her height, her figure, her style. 

Is that John's type? Everything you're not. You sigh to yourself, because even if you were his type physically, you're achingly aware of the one-sided nature of your little predicament. 

Maybe the dating apps weren't such a bad idea after all—a fun distraction or a quick shag to end your dry spell should be enough to allow you to move past this. You just need a handsome man to come along and catch your eye.

"You okay?" Kyle nudges you softly, eyes shining with concern in a way only his sweet brown eyes are capable of. 

"Yeah." You nod, forcing a smile to cover your lie. Okay might be overstating things, but it's not like you can be honest, and the alcohol pumping through your veins is not enough to make you loose-lipped—yet. 

He leans in closer, voice dropping low so the conversation is shared just between the two of you. He's so close you can smell the freshness of his cologne mingling with the bitter tinge on his breath. "Still thinking about the apps?" 

You shake your head and avert your gaze, no longer able to look him in the eye. "No, nothing like that." 

There's a contemplative, weighty silence from both of you—Kyle sips his drink, and you become focused on fiddling with the soggy beermat on the table.

"Doesn't hurt to look, y'know?" Kyle whispers, encouragement and understanding in his tone.

You don't know if he's talking about the apps or if he's perceptive enough to know about how you feel about John.

"R-right." Your words stutter out, betraying the way your hands shake under the table. If Kyle is all that perceptive, he surely has no doubts now.

"I get not wanting to dive into anything, though." He continues, and each syllable only makes your heart tremble more. "Never know what's a rebound and what's not, right?" 

The truth to his words stings, the silent implication—don't make that mistake. 

"Yeah..."  you whisper back, the beermat now in pieces, scattered across the wood like leaves in a hurricane.

You sit with it, the dread in your stomach, and pray for John's speedy return, his warmth and soothing presence. 

"Will we be seeing yer on base more often then? Always a treat seeing your bonnie face." Johnny's chatter offers a reprieve from your thoughts, and his playful wink and charming smile are almost enough to make you forget your sorrows.

You shrug, having not had the time yet to daydream about further visits. "I doubt it. I didn't think that kind of thing was allowed. Like, frequent visits, you know?"

Maybe it'd be different if you were actually something to John—entangled, official. 

Johnny scoffs. "Swear some lads' girlfriends never leave the place, always sneaking around."

"That include you, Johnny?" You ask teasingly, receiving a snort from Simon.

"Johnny couldn't sneak a girl in if he tried."  

Johnny clutches his chest in horror, looks upon Simon with that kicked puppy look. "Hey now, no' fair Lt."

"I know, Simon can't talk. Man's got no game." Kyle cuts in to support the Scot.

"I've got plenty of game." Simon huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. 

You watch on with glee, feeling like their sister. 

Johnny arches a brow skeptically. "This like the time you told us you weren't ugly under the mask?"

"He isn't!" You blurt out, thinking your interjection is only fair. Simon isn't your type, and he isn't pretty like Kyle or Johnny, but he's still handsome.

Kyle snorts Simon's way. "Least you've got one admirer." He teases.

"I called both of you pretty earlier, only fair Simon gets a turn too." You point accusingly at both boys, while they simply smirk at your accidental innuendo. "Sorry, I'm a fucking lightweight." 

Your eyes flicker Simon's way, worried you've made him uncomfortable, but there's a quiet look of appreciation in his gaze—only for the briefest of moments, before he sighs. "Don't tell 'em that." 

"Tell them what?"

John's reappearance is almost poetic, perfectly timed to catch Simon's admonishment of your confession, meaning the truth will be revealed to John too.

He sinks into the seat beside you, the air shifting as he settles in, and throws an arm over the back of the booth seat. His thick thigh presses into yours, his warmth seeping back into you, calming you as you're surrounded by everything him. 

"We've got a lightweight on our hands." Johnny chuckles, his tone downright scheming. 

"Soap." John's voice dips low, that warning tone you all know.

"Can't get too sloppy when he has to take me home."  You chime in, an attempt to keep things light. You nudge John with your shoulder, still yourself beside him for a moment. 

He doesn't move, nor do you, the lengths of your bodies pressed together as you both relax into each other's touch. You're almost enveloped by him, and the feeling only grows as his foot shifts beside yours, hooking itself over until your foot is held hostage by his boot.

You swear he must feel the way you shudder.

"Aye, we'll just get you sloppy enough then. Shots are on me!" Johnny's shoving Simon out to head to the bar, excitement in every step.

John sighs, beleaguered, the heavy sound drawing your full attention. "S'gonna be a long night." 

Now you're certain he's pouting. There's the slightest, almost imperceivable jut to his bottom lip. It's adorable, really. 

Your hand twitches, reaching up to squeeze his bearded cheeks until his lips truly do pout. You expect him to squirm away, to shove off your touch, but it doesn't come. His brow furrow deepens, but he stills under your touch, giving you the confidence you need to push your luck just a little further. "You're almost cute when you're grumpy, old man."

Even John Price, with his ironclad restraint, can't stop the way his eyes soften at your admiration, your teasing. "Yeah, love?" 

"Yeah." 

You're so lost in each other's eyes that you completely miss the way Kyle and Simon exchange a knowing look, their telepathic conversation whirling at the newfound contentment they're seeing on their Captain's face.

———

Johnny must've gotten distracted in some pretty bird's eyes or shoving pound coins into the fruit machine, because he doesn't reappear with shots for the better part of half an hour—not that anyone was eagerly awaiting the bounty he brings.

He sets down a tray on the table, five shots of some familiar-looking liquor that somewhat resembles tar.

Your stomach grumbles at the prospect, and you can tell the sentiment is mirrored, as the other men eye the shot glasses warily.

"Absolutely not." John pushes the shot back in Johnny's direction the millisecond it's set down in front of him.

"C'mon, Cap." He pouts, pushing it back toward him, careful not to spill a drop. 

The rest of you are braving it, suffering through what Johnny has to offer, but you refuse to do it alone. 

"Yeah, Captain, c'mon." You plead, fluttering your eyelashes his way. "We can get a little drunk, get a taxi home. Please?" 

You exaggerate the nickname, the pleading tone, and delight in the contemplative silence where you can see him preparing to relent.

"Fine." He sighs, to the sound of Johnny cheering and the rest of you delighting that you all get to share in both misery and merriment. 

"Bring her out more often!" Johnny cries, voice booming. It seems he had a few extra drinks on his little detour, too, as his eyes glisten with the effects of the alcohol. "On 3.1, 2, 3..." 

All of you tip back the shots at the same time, the liquor burning down your throat like napalm. The only flavour besides sheer ethanol is an infusion of rancid liquorice, and none of you come out of the other side unscathed.

"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Simon grunts, his lip curling in disgust as he sends a death glare his friend's way.

"Tastes worse than usual," Kyle adds, his nose still crinkled.

"Fuckin' disgustin'." John agrees.

"Eh, I had worse in uni." You choke out an honest comment. Considering some of the shit you consumed during those years, but you're mostly trying to put on a brave face, being the most affected of the group. 

Johnny finds great amusement in your comment, a playful smirk finding its way onto his face. "Oh aye, you uni girls are somethin' else."

"How are you a lightweight now then?" Kyle asks.

"My binge drinking days are long behind me, Kyle." You shrug, the life of late nights and an actual friendship group long behind you. "Nowadays I much prefer a cuppa and a night on the couch." 

"I ken what Price sees in ye." Johnny hollers, looking smug as he adds a little too loudly. "Perfect pals, aye?" 

Simon sighs heavily and elbows his comrade in the side. "Quiet, MacTavish, getting too excitable."

Johnny's lip curls. "You're just a boring wee shite." 

"I only speak English, Johnny." 

"Ach." He grunts, waving Simon off, and once again, you're giddy with the feeling of a sibling-like connection between you and the boys.

Your bladder calls your attention then, the sudden urge beckoning you to the bathroom.

You turn to John, tapping him lightly. "Mind if I get out?" 

He shuffles out, allowing you to be free. "Bathroom?" He whispers in your ear, checking in.

"Yup." You nod, head feeling a little wobbly as you do. "Anyone want another drink on my way back? Something that isn't disgusting."

John looks around the table before speaking on everyone's behalf. "Another round for us all, I think."

"Need something to wash the taste of that out of our mouths." Kyle gestures to an empty shot glass with disgust.

"Got it." You salute the men, ready to set off on your mission, but as you turn, your wrist is caught in a large hand, John's hand.

His touch burns into your skin as he stills you, and your eyes train from the point of connection to his own gaze. And then he's pulling away, pulling out his wallet and presenting his card with a look.

Take it. 

Really? 

"You don't pay for anything, not around me, Bunny." He adds, leaving no room for debate. 

You swallow thickly and nod, complying with his wishes as you pluck the card from his fingers and flee before he sees your lustful gaze. 

Your gait is a little unsteady as you pad across the sticky floor to the women's bathrooms, which are thankfully free. 

The alcohol really hits you when you sit on the toilet, the world spinning around you as you lean against the side of the cubicle. 

The world always seems so hazy and yet so clear in moments like these. Your surroundings fade to nothing, but one thought remains present—you want John Price, and you need to do a much better job of hiding it. 

Finally, you have him all to yourself, a selfish little part of you so deeply satisfied. A horrid, nasty little feeling settles in your gut, the realisation of years of built up jealousy and resentment. 

All this time, John has been trying so hard, to be a father to James, to even just be his friend. All of John's love and attention, his hard word and dedication—sure you felt it too, had been on the periphery, but James was always the focus. 

And now it was your turn, to be the centre of John's life, his focus, to be the one he tries to guide, the one he tries to connect with. You know it's special, so fucking sacred, and yet your sick little mind tries to twist it into something it isn't, wants more than what John can give. 

But you know a friend, maybe even a stand in for his child, is all you'll ever be, so you resolve to keep all your silly little feelings locked deep inside.

For your sake, for John's.

You finish up and wash your hands as you try to brush the heavy thoughts from your mind and hype yourself up. Your thoughts drift to the usual crowd in women's bathrooms, girls who live to hype you up. 

None of them are to be found, so you resort to being your own, until your drunken mind finds your reflection more appealing than usual and your confidence blossoms—you head out of the bathroom with a swing in your hips and a resolution to get your shit together. 

The bar is quiet when you approach, with only a few patrons waiting to be served, and it isn't long before you're ordering a round and waiting patiently for the bartender to hand over your drinks.

"Hey, gorgeous." 

It seems you're destined not to wait alone—you turn to the sound of the voice, taking in the figure beside you. 

A tall man, a little older than you, but not by too much, it seems. The coppery brown hair of his beard catches the light, flecks of red where you're used to John's greys. His eyes are nice, but the hue is agate, not aquamarine. 

You take a moment to respond, alcohol dulling your senses, confusion seeping in. "Hi?" His intent is clear, but your newfound single status and a touch of ingrained insecurity make you blink.

He takes a step closer, coming into your space without crowding, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips in a way that's almost charming. "You here alone?"

"I'm with some friends." You gesture at the table, expecting to see the men lost in their own conversation.

Instead, you see John's gaze fixed on you, unwavering, protective.

"Oh yeah, who's the one giving me the death stare?" The stranger chuckles. 

"My b-," You correct yourself before you make that mistake. "My ex's dad." 

The words are clumsy, painful to your heart in how they fail to encapsulate the true nature of your connection. John Price is so much more to you than the remnant of a broken relationship.

The man arches a brow, but still smiles good-naturedly as his eyes twinkle with intrigue. "You're mates with your ex's dad?"

You nod, and struggle to turn your attention completely away from John's burning gaze. "Yeah, I think he might be the best guy I know." 

"I'd better work hard to beat him then." He offers out his hand with a gracious smile. "I'm Aron, and you?" 

You tell him your name and shake his hand, but quickly follow up. "I've only been single for a few weeks, Aron. I'm not—" 

You stumble over your words, unsure how to explain or if you really want to. Doing the whole I just got cheated on speech seems mortifying, and adding the I have a crush on my ex's dad part seems impossible. 

Aron shrugs, taking your words in stride, undeterred by the gentle rejection. "I don't mind taking things slow." He whispers, voice soft but sultry, and you hate that your traitorous body responds. 

"Psh, sure, that's what all guys say." You joke, feeling a little brazen in your tipsy state.

"Some of us mean it." He says, seemingly sincerely. 

Your eyes dart around as you fumble for a response. "I'm really not looking for anything right now."

Aron nods, but pulls out his phone, bringing up his contact. 

His full name, number, and a picture of himself as the contact photo looking undeniably sweet.  "How about I give you my number, and if you're interested, now or later, you give me a text?"

He offers you an easy out, a gentlemanly offer by not asking for your number. 

"I'm not sure... I'm kind of taken aback."

He shrugs as he pulls away his phone. "No worries."

But something in you pauses. You could do with a rebound. Something to take your mind off of John, as it's he who lingers in your mind, not James. The twisted nature of it all almost makes you chuckle.

"Okay." You give him a nod, showing your mind is made, before you pull out your phone and copy down the number.

"Okay." He nods. "I can help you carry those drinks by the way." He gestures to the tray of drinks that have settled beside you, his bright smile radiant. 

You ignore the warble in your stomach that tells you his chivalry is off, unearned, not the same as— 

"Got it from here, cheers mate." John's voice reaches your eyes as his large form appears by your side, his appearance stealthy despite his stature. He looms over you, offering Aron a fake smile as he squares his shoulders. 

"Uh, thanks, though." You smile back as you grab the tray of drinks, eager to flee the situation that suddenly became awkward. 

"Hope to hear from you soon." He offers with a wink, before John quickly steers you away.

"You gave him your number?" He grumbles in your ear. 

You shake your head. "No, I got his." 

He grunts disapprovingly.  "Delete it, yeah, love?"

Your eyes search his face as he pulls away, desperate to figure out his reaction, the reason behind his cryptic command. The thought of him being mad at you for moving on so soon crosses your mind and prickles at your heart.

Before you can question or comment, he's taking the drinks from your hands, handing them out to the lads and falling into their conversation. 

"What did we miss?" John asks.

You think the previous topic will be dropped, but fate is not so kind, or rather in reality, Kyle.

"Just wondering if someone just gave out her number?" He asks, brow raised and a boyish smile on his lips, seemingly unaware of the simmering tension that brews between you and John.

"I didn't give out my number, but I got his." You utter sheepishly as you slink back into the booth and try to settle atop the now-itchy upholstery.

"Oh, gonna give him a call then?" Kyle asks, and you miss the intent in the way his eyes flicker to Johnny's and Simon's, then to John's.

"Bit old for you, isn't he?" Simon adds as his pint stops just short of his lips and he seemingly decides to add fuel to the fire.

You can feel the blaze in your cheeks, the implication of the age gap, an aspect of relationships you've always been fond of, but never more than now.  "I didn't really ask..." The confession falls from your lips like that of a scolded child. 

You gave out your number to a man you know nothing about. No wonder your protective father figure is pissy about it. Once again you find yourself wishing desperately for another conversation topic, for a distraction, or for a sinkhole to open up in the middle of the pub and swallow you all whole.

"Oh cause ye like em older, eh?" Johnny jokes like it's nothing. "Or are ye that desperate?" 

You choke on your own spit and struggle to formulate a response. 

John is stepping in before you need to. 

"Soap." He chides, voice low and sharp, harsh in a way that instantly draws the Scot in line.

"I didnae mean it like that!" He stumbles over his words as he tries to explain, eyes frantic and face crimson. "Just yer a bonnie girl, ye could have anyone ye like, and I'm sure it's no' been so long ye'll throw yerself at the first man who comes knocking." 

He only seems to dig the hole deeper, but the implication of his last sentence makes you bark out a laugh.

"Pfft, I wish that were the case." You scoff before you can stop yourself, before you can realise you've taken up a shovel and climbed in the ditch right alongside Johnny.

If things weren't tense before, they surely are now. 

"Wha'?" Johnny asks, confused. You have no doubt the others share the sentiment, but Johnny is the only one brazen enough to vocalise it.

"It's been ages, if you must know. I wasn't exactly getting my needs met." It's part spite, part for your own amusement—your tipsy nature making the calculation of the ratio between funny and oversharing skewed. How will they react to such news?

You don't have to wait long to see their expressions shift.

Johnny is entirely unsubtle, gaping jaw and widened eyes. Kyle struggles to hold back the way his lips part, and even Simon's brow twitches in the centre. 

But it's John you look at intently, John whose reaction is the only one that matters. 

His jaw ticks, his brows furrow and his eyes burn into yours—the combination making you prickle with guilt for indulging your petty side.

"Seriously?" Johnny asks to confirm, his voice so much higher when it's wrapped in disbelief.

You know you should drop it, deflect the question and move along so the pit in your stomach will fade away, but the words tumble out before you can. "A bit hard to get laid when he was so busy with someone else, hmm?"

The table falls quiet, shared looks between the men telling you that a sense of anger is something they all share.

"No offense, Cap, but ye sons fuckin' mental." 

"Don't need to tell me. Now drop it." He commands, and his eyes are steely as they fix on Johnny, but his touch is soft as it settles on your knee. 

"Didnae mean to be rude." Johnny swallows with an apologetic look sent your way.

"It's fine," You brush it off with a half-laugh. "I should've known wanting to shag some random bloke was a bad idea." 

Johnny snorts into his pint, unable to help himself. "Oh aye, wanting to shag him already, atta girl." 

"Don't bloody encourage her, Johnny." Simon's words are charged, an uncharacteristic level of investment, or what seems like it, in your bedroom activities.

It sparks up that rebellious streak inside you, the petty one that had just reared its head and had barely been tamped back down. "Got something against girls shagging random men, Simon?" You ask, your sweet tone turning just a touch sharp.

"Couldn't give a shit." He shrugs. "Cap said drop it, so drop it." 

That has you coming back down to earth—the reminder that you too disobeyed John's orders, didn't drop it just as he asked. 

You take a sip of your drink, swallowing it and your pride as you turn to the man beside you. 

"Sorry." You whisper, voice solemn, cursing yourself for being inconsiderate of John's feelings as well as being disobedient. "I didn't mean to be insensitive or anything, I know James is still—"

"No worries, love. S'not that." His lips curl into a tight smile as the hand on your knee strokes soothingly, its presence and effect on you now undeniable. "Just protective over you, hmm?" 

Your gaze flutters between John's enigmatic stare and the table as your mind swirls and your heart races. 

The acknowledgement of his protectiveness has you floating on cloud nine, though the realisation that his fatherly guardianship has been shaken by tales of your sex life leaves you wanting to blush. 

Underneath that is the painful realisation that your place is solidified—a daughter figure, nothing more. 

 "Yeah, I suppose you don't want to hear about me and, uhh, all that." You gesture non-specifically, hoping he won't make you elaborate. 

"Right." He nods sharply, his hand giving one last squeeze before he begins to pull away.

"'m sorry." You rush out your words as you grasp his retreating hand, both of them enveloping him in an attempt to keep him close, to feel the balm of his warmth once more. "Forgive me?" 

He squeezes again, offering just a touch of reassurance before he slips free once more and you have to pretend your heart doesn't ache. "Already forgiven." 

There's a heaviness to his tone that makes you doubt his words, but he turns to sip at his pint like nothing is amiss, and you're left with your own stormy thoughts.

John has all he needs to make you tremble without even realising, and you were the one who loaded the gun and handed it to him. He waves it around unaware, a far cry from his proficiency with the real thing.

The mental image offers a welcome distraction, one you latch onto.

"Can I ask something I've been wondering about?" You turn to the boys, eyes glazed over for a moment until you tune back in. Your pondering had sent your thoughts straight to the image of John holding a very real gun.

"Go fer it." 

"Who's the best shot in the group?" 

"Me." All three of the boys chime in at once, and you can't help the burst of laughter that leaves you at their boyish antics. Kyle and Johnny seem genuinely eager to convince you, while Simon's declaration is simply matter of fact.

"Oh, c'mon!" The way the men narrow their eyes at each other in disbelief instantly lifts your spirits, and you turn to John, hoping to pull him into the fun of it all. "Okay, Captain, in your professional assessment, who is the best shot, not including you, of course." 

The stroke to his ego makes the corner of his lip twitch ever so slightly. 

"Simon, never misses a shot." He declares, after only a moment of thought.

"Do you?" Admittedly more interested in John's prowess than Simon's.

His head tilts as he considers your unexpected question. "Hmm?"

"Do you ever miss a shot?" You ask, eyes staring up at the man with wonder.

"Never." He says simply, and you believe him without question.

"Aww, c'mon, Cap! Give us some credit." Johnny throws his hands up in defeat, devastated by his Captain's approval being sent Simon's way.

"Johnny's the best in demolition, Kyle has a tactical mind like no other." John explains, and you can see the barely-concealed pride in his eyes.

"And what about John, what is he best at?" You turn to the boys to get their insight on their formidable captain, a glimpse into the side of the man you never get to see. 

"Eating his weight in biscuits?" 

"Scowling?" 

"Walking at the back of the group and telling everyone else to hurry the fuck up?" 

There's a beat of silence before you burst into laughter, much to John's chagrin. "Amazing. God, you must have so many stories."

Whether it's about biscuits or commanding or warfare, you couldn't care less, you're just desperate to hear more about John, to know him in new ways—even if they aren't the ones you truly desire.

"Well, there was this one time on a Recon mission that the Captain—" Kyle begins.

John interrupts with a pointed finger, and you worry the story will never be told.

"Let Johnny tell it." He says instead.

Kyle sputters, his eagerness to be the one to share clear. "But—"

"That's an order."

"We'll be here all night!"

John shrugs, his decision final as he leans back into the booth with his pint in hand, settling in for the story. "He tells it better."

"Aye I do, bonnie, yer in for a treat!"

Johnny launches into the tale with an engaging vim only attainable by born storytellers, and you're instantly enthralled.

His words are captivating enough, his narration engaging all on its own, but his portrayal of John, a story that spins him as the stuff of legends—it makes your heart sing to hear someone speak of him the way your soul feels is so true, to hear someone else preaching his gospel.

And then there's imagery it draws to mind, the stuff of daydreams.

Captain John Price, in full uniform and tac gear, taking control of a situation that rapidly spiraled out of control, charging into danger without fear, taking out countless men and saving his own in the process.

Johnny still chimes in with a joke here and there, Simon with a correction, John with a comment that downplays the resulting injury.

There's more humour and tales of comradery sprinkled in too, but your mind only fixates on the details of John, the small things you can file away for your mind to recall later.

If anyone notices your heart-eyed stare, they're kind enough not to comment.

——

The rest of the night passes by in a steady flow of comfortable conversation and banter, at least among you and the guys. The conversation turns back to you, and then John falls quiet and contemplative at the pub, and doesn't say a word as you begin the journey home, beyond uttering a destination.

The shift in atmosphere was arresting, your hairs standing on end as the air shifted the moment the two of you were alone. 

Besides the minor blip regarding your sex life, John had seemed to be enjoying himself... until the last of his pints when he fell quiet and sullen. 

With the atmosphere of the taxi feeling so uncomfortable, you bury yourself in your phone, not taking too long before you pull up the new contact and delete it, deciding to pretend the whole thing never happened. 

If Aron's contact is gone and the whole thing isn't mentioned again, there's no reason for any more awkward conversations or painful confrontations about John's son and his behaviour. 

It's the best thing to do, and the right thing, since hours ago, John had outright told you to delete it.

John's demeanour is still as frosty as the night air as you finally arrive home. He slams the door shut a little too hard, throws down the keys on the side table with a touch too much fervour.

You stand, frozen in the hallway, sick to your stomach and yet determined—to not repeat your mistakes, to not live with this feeling.

You need to talk, and surely John will listen, make you feel heard, and reassure you, too. He's proven himself time and time again.

"John?"

"What?" His tone is harsh as he rips off his jacket. 

It almost makes you waver, reconsider, but you remind yourself again, John is not James. "What's wrong?" You ask softly, sweetly. 

He pauses then, hanging up his jacket with a softer touch as he sends a smile your way, a tight-lipped one that doesn't quite reach his eyes but aims to soothe you nonetheless. His whole demeanour seems to shift, just ever so slightly, as he sees the upset clear on your face and he knows he is the cause. "Nothin', love."

You sigh. You wish you could let it go, but you know the tug in your chest won't go away if you do. "It's clearly something."

He's silent as he turns away, puts his focus on setting the house alarm. The quiet in the air is suffocating you.

"Don't keep things from me, please. I can't go back to living like that, and you're always honest with me." Your voice cracks with your gentle plea, and his eyes flicker back to you. 

He sighs deeply, taking a moment before his gaze shifts from soft to steely. "Fine. Give me y'r phone." 

He holds out a hand expectantly.

"Why?" You ask, but you pull out your phone and settle it against his beckoning, impatient fingers regardless.

"So I can delete that prick's number." He grunts as he inputs your password with punchy thumbs. 

You don't question how he knows it, but you do take issue with his assessment. "He wasn't a prick." 

His eyes pin you as he clucks his tongue. "Didn't ask for your opinion on the matter, Bunny. What was his name?" 

"Aron." You answer, realising such a confession is pointless considering your actions. 

He scrolls down the contacts, and you wait for him to realise. "No Aron in here."

"I already deleted it." You shrug, crossing your arms over your body as you avert your gaze. 

You hear his sharp inhale, feel his eyes fixed on your face. "Yeah?"

"You told me to, so..." You risk looking up at him, and are rewarded by the proud look in his hardened stare. 

"Such a good fucking girl for me, love. Deleted his number just like that, yeah?" He gruffs, voice low, his eyes turning glassy. He draws closer, leans in, his next words tumbling free from loose lips. "Just cause daddy told you to?”

Your mind scrambles because surely you misheard what he said, your drunken mind rearranging the syllables into what you really want to hear. Good girl was nothing new, easily said innocently by John on many occasions, but daddy? That was all the alcohol playing tricks on you.

Alcohol and the fact that he's entirely unaware of the effect he's having on you, the way his protective paternal side makes you crave him in ways you really shouldn't. Your wires have gotten crossed, and no electrical engineer or psychiatrist could undo the way your brain has reshaped John in your mind.

"Of course..." You answer mindlessly. Of course you deleted it just like that.

You try to collect yourself, through the swimming in your brain and the fire that burns in your body. It's hard between the intoxication caused by both the alcohol and John, but your brain latches onto what matters. John asked you to delete the number, and you did, and now he's praising you for it—praise that feels so fucking good, that reinforces your need to follow John's every command. 

You hadn't asked for his reasoning then, just obeyed without question, but curiosity still burns within you, and while you don't want to risk your status as John's good girl, you want to know.

"Can I ask why?" You whisper quietly, searching for answers. What did he see that you didn't? Had you missed something obvious in your urge to get over him? "Why did you ask me to delete it?"

"Didn't like the way he was looking at you." His words are almost snarled, weighty, your question and his answer stirring emotion within him that shows in the way his brows meet and his jaw tenses. 

"And how was that?" You ask before you can stop yourself.

You get a brief glimpse of the charged look in John's eye before you're pinned to the door, one hand curling around your jaw, another bruising on your hip.

His hot breath fans over your lips, your body tingles under his touch as you cling to the front of his shirt desperately.

John Price is on you like an animal, caging you between hardwood and his strong frame, making you tremble under his touch.

It's too much, and not enough. You shudder as you draw in the breath that John exhales as he pants against you. 

"He was looking at you like he wanted you. Like he wanted what's mine." 

You have no time to absorb his words as your lips are claimed in a bruising kiss. 

The instant John's lips meet yours, your world changes. Fireworks, thunder and lightning, the rush of blood and the roar of a flame. It's claiming and hungry—he kisses like he's been starved of you for far too long, demanding lips and eager tongue, all control and domination. 

Your eyes slip shut as you lose yourself in it, as you yield to his command. He takes, and you give, oh so willingly, offering yourself up to his ravenous touch, letting your gentle moans slip free into his waiting lips. Your hands begin to roam, to explore, to finally indulge in the feeling of John's solid form underneath your waiting fingertips.

And then he pulls away like it burns to touch you, like your electric connection stings rather than soothes. All the warmth drains from you, from the tips of your fingers right to your very heart.

"Fuck." He pants, part exertion, part terror. His eyes are wide in panic, a foreign expression you hoped you'd never see.

It all comes crashing down in an instant as John retreats.

One step, then two. His face twists between hesitation and anger, pain and regret, a flurry of emotion that only seems to grow more tortured as his eyes flicker to yours. 

The walls seem to close in and yet the distance between the two of you only grows.

"John—" You call after him, but your plea falls on deaf ears. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" You ask, voice soft, unintrusive.

He meets your gaze again, baby blues stormy with emotion, with secrets he cannot share. "Just work stuff." 

"Yeah..." You wish there was anything you could say to soothe him, but you know his demons run deep, and the horrors he faces for his job are not ones you can confront.

There's not much you can say, and even less that you can do.

"I'm looking forward to going back to work myself, I think." You say, hoping a little light conversation about your own work will steer the conversation away from John, away from applying pressure to a wound that needs to be left alone right now. 

"That's good, keep your mind busy." He says as he sips, and you notice a sense of satisfaction, maybe even pride tugging at his lips, seemingly at the sound of you excited to return to work despite the daunting nature of it.

"Hmm, though playing maid for you has kept me ticking over." You tease. 

He barks out a laugh, a burst of mirth appearing behind his eyes, the storm clouds clearing.

"That right?" 

"Thankfully, you're a very easy-going boss." You poke his muscular side, delight in the way his face pinches in playful judgement.

"Don't think the lads would agree." 

You scoff. "Maybe they should start wearing maid outfits to butter you up." 

"You first, know you've got one after all." The look he pins you with is downright dirty, surely an expression you're reading wrong, but then again, there is something suggestive about a sweet little maid outfit after all.

You feel your cheeks heat, your body flush, your mind reeling as you're taken back to that Halloween night where you earned your nickname with the risque outfit. Your intention then had been to feel sexy, confident, to draw eyes, but of them all, you hadn't expected to draw the ones of the man sitting beside you. "John!" You gasp, playful scandal laced in your tone, but really, you're delighted at the way his mood has lifted. 

He only snickers into his coffee, broad hand dwarfing the mug, unable to drink as his lips keep pulling into a smirk. "Bunny ears might not be practical for cleaning, always falling off." 

"I hate you, you're never gonna let me live that down." You moan as you hide your face in the sleeves of your dressing gown at the mortification within

You hear him move from beside you, climbing out of the stool and making his way around the kitchen island.

"Cuppa?" He offers as he picks up the kettle to fill it. 

"Please." You sigh, needing the liquid gold to kickstart your first day back. 

You watch as he works, grabbing your favourite mug off the counter from where he must've set it up earlier, sneaking in an extra sugar for your sweet tooth.

John cares; that much is clear.

When you settled in after moving, you spread your touch around the house, through your day, your usual quiet gestures seeping into the walls of the house and the bones of John's body. It's natural, routine for you, and something you've gone so long without, until John.

For every action, a reaction, for every gesture, an acknowledgement. You know your presence is felt, appreciated. 

You get his cup of coffee ready the night before—pick out a mug to make him smile, spoon in the coffee granules and sugar, leave out the spoon, fill the kettle. When you wake in the morning, a mug filled with a teabag and a touch too much sugar is laid out just the same, 

"Heard from James?" He asks, voice a little too casual. He doesn't meet your gaze either, focusing on the mugs in a way that suggests there's more weight to the question than he'd like to let on.

It must be difficult for him, all this.

"I blocked him like you told me to, now I'm out, and the lease is sorted." You shrug, feeling a twist of both guilt and relief. 

After your time together, you expected the ending to be more severe, painful even, but you also never expected James to do what he did. There were no warning signs of his traitorous nature from the start, no red flags as to his disloyalty. 

Meeting John and getting to know him only affirmed your faith in James. The older man might not have raised his son, but you believed such honour, such commitment to all the best tenets of masculinity must flow in the veins of his progeny. 

You hate that you were wrong, and yet you don't hate that it hurts a lot less than you might have expected.

A heavy breath leaves John as he finally looks at you, lips thinned. "Good girl." 

You hate the way he says that, hate the way it makes you shiver in a way it really, really shouldn't. But after all, you're a good girl, one who has longed to hear those words for so long, who relishes finally being told as such.

"Have you?" Your throat is sticky, voice a little tight as you continue, "Heard from him?"

"No." John's tone is clipped, but his expression isn't as pained as you expect; his gaze is almost accepting instead. One might assume it's indifference, but you know John well enough to see it for what it truly is, well-practised stoicism.

You feel your frown deepen as something tugs at your heart and tightens your chest. A sense of betrayal, not for you, but for John. "Oh. What an arsehole." 

James has no reason to cut off his dad. John was simply standing up for you, and more than that, expressing his own disappointment in his son's wayward behaviour. 

You shouldn't be surprised that the man you once loved, the one who betrayed you, can't face real accountability. 

Will the two ever patch things up? Surely they will, you think, you hope.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it," John comments as he finishes making your tea, handing you the mug that swirls with steam. It's too hot to drink, but you wrap your hands around the hot ceramic and lose yourself in its warmth as you muse to yourself.

Despite his insistence that you don't worry about it, for once, you can't help but disobey.

How heartbreaking it would be for John to have found his only child, just to lose him again.

"Can I ask something?" Your curiosity makes your words fall free before you can stop them. 

John nods softly, his gaze sweet but resolute. "Always." 

Always. 

It never fails to make your heart stutter how such a secretive man can be so open, just for you. 

It makes asking curious, slightly intrusive questions easier, that's for sure.

Still, you hesitate, feeling a little clumsy as you ask, "Do you want more kids?" 

He takes a moment to think on it, a flicker of furrowing to his brow, a slight purse to his lips as his mind whirrs. "I'd like to, with the right woman." 

The right woman, you wonder what that means for John, where his tastes lie, how different his dream woman might be from a woman like you. It's an unfortunate curiosity that only grows the more time you spend together, one area of John he keeps under lock and key. Whoever she is, she'd be so lucky—to have John as a partner, a father to her children.

"Clocks ticking!" You tease, hoping it lands as lightheartedly as you intend it, after all, you're honestly happy to hear John is intent on starting a family.

John arches a brow, his expression shifting curiously, the air becoming charged. "I've got time." 

"Yeah, I suppose you men are lucky, being virile forever." 

Admittedly, you were getting a little antsy, eager to start a family, another area where you and your ex differed, while you and his father seem to align.

"Think about my fertility lots, do you?" He asks, equal parts amused and intrigued. There's something to his look that makes the whole topic seem more suggestive than you ever intended it to be.

You shrug and look away, trying to play it off like the conversation isn't taking an unexpected turn. "Someone has to." 

"Family's not easy with the job." He reminds you, as if you don't already know. 

Your thoughts start to stray then, thinking about John as a dad, not just a father desperate to reconnect with an adult son. 

A dad with a soft little baby in his strong arms, cooing at it sweetly—exhausted from long nights, but still smiling all the while.

A man filling out around the middle, contentment weight from starting a family, having home-cooked meals and lazy afternoons cuddled up with a toddler. 

John, with a miniature version of himself, just as sweet and stubborn, a blue-eyed boy who is yours too. 

The thought jolts you back to reality, body flooding with guilt as if such forbidden ideas were visible for all to see. 

You desperately try to change the subject, to segue away from Dad John and all the inappropriate thoughts that come along with it.

"Speaking of jobs, I was thinking about going back to doing work from home half the week, but..." You start to fiddle, to try to find something to soothe your nerves.

John's head tilts your way, his interest clear. "But what?" 

"Well, I wanted to see how you felt about it." You feel your voice tremble as you speak, apprehension bubbling inside you. 

"Go for it." He says without missing a beat. 

The complete and instant acceptance takes you by surprise, but soothes you all the same. "Really?" 

His brow furrows, a puzzled look on his features. "Why not?" 

God, everything with him is always so easy, you muse—every issue or challenge met head-on with quiet determination. 

Nothing is an issue or a chore, a drawn-out debate or something left unaddressed and lingering.

You feel that a weight is lifted under John's quiet acceptance, but still you feel the urge to explain. "James had objections... hated me being home all the time, thought it was unfair. Probably made it harder for him to sneak around." 

"Christ." John almost chokes as he takes a sip of his drink, then his surprise morphs into a disdain that is clear from the tick of his jaw.

John had witnessed you and James at odds once or twice, was aware of the fact that his son wasn't the best boyfriend in the world, but every new detail of his son's lacklustre behaviour seems to piss him off further.

Your observation leaves you wondering, about how long it was all going on, about when James morphed from uncaring to cruel. The storm returns to John's eyes, the blue rimming his pupils almost greyer in tone.

"At least I don't have that to worry about any more." You shrug, pushing off the grim thought.

"Not at all, darling girl. The only woman getting over the threshold of this house is you." He huffs. "Understood?"

Between his words and the intense look sparkling in the azure depths of his eyes, you're breathless. The loyalty, the certainty, it floors you, and your traitorous heart flutters at his declaration. 

He's the man of the house, you're the woman, his woman, in one twisted way or another. 

You shouldn't enjoy it as much as you should, but it feels right, how a man should behave—steadfast and protective, preserving the sanctity of the home. 

"Understood." You reply simply, accepting his authoritative declaration with ease. 

Your cheeks flush with a heat you hope goes unseen, and you try your best to casually change the topic like John's words haven't set you aflame.

"Uh, will I be able to set up a desk down here?" You ask. 

"You can share my office." 

You pause. "Just like that?" 

"Just like that, your wish is my command." His smile is absent, but his eyes are determined, resolute. "Can't share devices though, for security reasons."

"Hmm, luckily for you, I'm not a spy." You tease, offering him a silly goofy grin, which makes him chuckle. "But are you sure you're okay sharing the space with me?"

You need to be certain, having lived so long as a thorn in someone's side, a stranger and an inconvenience. 

John reaches out then, his large hand settling over your smaller wrist.

"S'your home now too." His eyes crinkle with his smile."'Sides, you've made every other room brighter. Think the office just needs that feminine touch too, if you're willing?"

A shiver of satisfaction rakes down your spine, the invitation explicit and more than you'd anticipated. 

John had noticed the changes you made around the house, too, because of course he did, and even better, he wanted more of them. 

More of your sweetly fragranced reed diffusers, your fine hand soaps, your homemade coasters and your cute little tea towels.

"Talk more about it later, yeah? Wanna hear about your plans for the office." He takes one last drink of his tea before he rises, stepping into your space to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "Gotta get going, see you later, love."

You freeze under the touch of his lips and the way they hover for just a touch too long.

It stretches out before you, each second feeling longer than the last. 

It all draws your focus, to the softness of his lips, the tender press of his hand against your shoulder, and how the closeness allows his cologne to invade your senses.

He's embraced you before, in comfort, in greetings and goodbyes not unlike this, and yet still, it's different, prolonged, intimate.

What was once a fatherly gesture, chaste and innocent, now feels corrupted—at least from your end, because surely John doesn't feel the same. There's nothing to suggest his pause is due to the same feelings that are beginning to bubble up for you.

The thought of wanting John burns within you, but cold sweeps in as he finally pulls away.

"See you, John." You rasp through your tightened throat, which only lessens when the man parts from your space. You call out after him when your thoughts return back to rationality. "Oh, doing a special pasta bake for dinner tonight, make sure you're back in time!"

"Yes, sweetheart, looking forward to it." He calls back, and then pauses mid-stride. "Was thinking of showing you round the base this weekend, if you're up for it." 

The sentiment of such a gesture isn't lost on you. "Definitely." You accept with a bright grin.

"I'll make the arrangements then." John nods firmly, the plan settled. He grabs his keys from the trinket dish you set up on the table by the door. "Have a nice day, love."

You're frozen, watching his retreating form with a little too much interest as your head begins to swirl. Your thoughts snag on the swagger in his step, the confident sway of his hips and the squaring of his shoulders as he marches off. Clearly, you need more sleep to fight off the inappropriate thoughts that are creeping in.

———-

That Saturday, you're in John's truck nice and early, thermos of tea in your hands as you watch the winding roads and rolling hills, anything to distract you from the man beside you.

You've been antsy since you woke, sweaty and aroused. The remnants of your dream cling to your consciousness, but there's nothing coherent, no one identifiable. All you recall is the scratch of a beard between your thighs and hands that held you like you were the most precious thing in the world. 

You'd rushed into a cold shower, eager to both cool down and start your exciting day ahead, but it had done nothing to stamp out the flames that ignited within. 

And now John, sitting beside you, driving you to his base with a gentle hum falling from his lips, is the object of your misplaced desire. 

He looks different in the sunrise, the pink and amber glow catching the silver in his hair, and your eyes can't help but stray to catch the light. 

So instead, you try to focus on the scenery, the Herefordshire hills that peak and slope, rather than John Price, as gorgeous as he is.

You've never been to John's base before, never had reason to, and your excitement builds as you draw closer.

The entrance to the base seems intimidating—guard posts, barbed wire, tons of cameras, and you already feel out of place among it all, the tension and security a far cry from civilian life. But the soldier at the barricade greets you both with a boyish, bright smile.

"Captain Price." He nods toward John, an air of formality to his words.

"Sergeant."

Then he turns to you, his smile widens, and the gruffness drops from his voice. "Miss."

"Hello." You offer with a little wave, an uncertainty betrayed by your trembling fingers.

John hands over his base ID as well as your own civilian one, which is whisked away momentarily as the Sergeant disappears into the guardhouse. 

He returns after a minute or so, a wry smile on his face as he hands everything back to John through the window. "She's out of your league." 

"Don't I know it." He scoffs, before his look and tone turn severe, and he fixes the sergeant with a pointed finger. "Watch yourself, mind."

"Roger that." The Sergeant salutes, half-mocking, before the gate lifts. 

If he's feeling chastised, he doesn't show it at all, even if the authoritative lick in John's tone made you shiver, how easily he can slip from joking to warning.

Then, the sergeant leans in to speak to you, looking right past John. "Welcome to Stirling Lines, miss." 

"Thank you, Sergeant!" You coo, and just notice the blush bursting onto his cheeks as John speeds into the compound—one hand on the wheel, the other wrenching the gears in a way that makes the muscle in his forearm shift.

With the car parked, your excitement ruptures forth, despite you feeling distinctly out of place among the uniformed soldiers and overly square buildings. John opens the car door for you and grabs your bag, the pink tote looking tiny on his broad shoulder.

As always, he's a perfect gentleman, even when he has the burden of a hard day’s work ahead of him.

The significance of the gesture of bringing you here is more important than the base itself. Military facilities hold little to no interest for you, but a glimpse into John's life, his chosen family, that's more valuable than the closely guarded secrets many on this base keep.

You envisioned it many times, what John's day looks like. Is he grumpy on his morning drive? Does he spend most of his day in meetings? How often is he doing paperwork versus something cool like shooting guns or running through the wilds? 

Of course, you've asked, politely and a little reserved, but John doesn't always give the most thorough answers, almost as if he's anticipating a preemptive sense of boredom. 

His change in tack is a little curious, then, how he's gone from brushing you off to inviting you in, but it is undeniable that the two of you have grown even closer as of late. 

"Where to first?" You ask, as John moves into your space, a broad palm and splayed fingers settling at your lower back as he guides you forward, his frame looming behind you. It's a familiar gesture, one of support and comfort that usually creates a pleasant hum in the bottom of your spine, not the radiating warmth it now causes instead.

"My office, of course," John speaks smoothly, unaware of your inner turmoil, the way your footing almost falters.

"I'm excited to see where you spend most of your time. You admit sincerely. "Plus all of these hot men in uniform, woof."  

John, in his uniform, your mind supplies, traitorously, because from what you've seen so far, none of the other men on base even come close to comparing. There's something about the way John's uniform moulds to his body, how he bends the cotton to his whim. His hair pokes out from around the neck of his shirt, cascades down his exposed arms, so unlike many of the men on base, all smooth and boyish.

You push the thoughts back down as you fan yourself exaggeratedly, playing up the joke. 

The way John stiffens beside you is nothing short of noticeable, his large frame shifting.

"Boys. They're a bunch of boys." His voice is a growl, a grumble, irritated, and you don't know why. 

Is John opposed to your objectification of his soldiers? But his language is awfully specific. Perhaps then, a dismissal of the younger men, a protective gesture meant to keep you from underdeveloped lovers who would do nothing good for your heart.

"Damn, I'd better go looking for the generals then." You joke, but your interest in older, more suitable prospects does nothing to soothe him.

John's jaw ticks, that hand at your back almost pushing you forward. "Very funny." He comments, tone clipped in a way that leaves you wondering. 

Is it strange for him, the prospect of you moving on? Joking so easily about being with other men when you have only just broken up with his son? 

You aren't left with your thoughts for long—as the two of you walk the corridors of one of the buildings, you're interrupted by the appearance of three familiar faces.

Johnny draws your attention first, as he rushes toward you, arms spread, and pulls you into a warm hug."Look who it is!" 

"Johnny!" 

You crash into him like an old friend, already feeling so comfortable with the man you've only met a handful of times. Johnny has that effect on people, though, a welcoming radiance that pulls you in, makes you gravitate around him akin a planet to the sun.

"Knew you wouldnae be able to stay away." He snickers as he pulls away, tugging you under his arm and rubbing the top of your head playfully. 

"You're just so irresistible, especially in that get-up." You nudge him and squirm as you extract yourself from his grasp. 

"Don't give him a big head." Kyle groans from beside you, the three of you falling into an immediate, siblinglike camaraderie. 

You give him a look dripping with playful disappointment. "Aww, if I can't give compliments, then you can't get yours." 

Kyle brightens then, standing up straighter and more prideful while he waits for his turn. "Go on then."

"You're looking especially handsome, too, Kyle." 

Your comment is earnest, because he does look smart in his work gear, that's for sure. All the boys do, but despite your hormone or loneliness-fueled desire, none of them draw your eye quite like John does.

His expression breaks into a little boyish grin, his brows upturning like, despite begging for the compliment, he's still shy about it. "Thanks, sweetheart." 

Simon stands off to the side, taking in the affectionate scene with eyes that betray nothing.

"Ghost." You nod simply, and he nods back. "Nice mask." 

"Made it myself." He retorts, and you don't need to see his lips to know he's smirking.

"Well, your sewing skills are im-mask-ulate. We should start a club." You grin cheesily, delighted at the huff of laughter that escapes the masked man, all while the others groan. 

"What brings ye here then?" Johnny asks excitedly.

John, who had silently watched the interactions so far, interjects, seemingly growing restless. "Thought she could do the tour." 

"I have so much to show ye—" Johnny begins to rant animatedly, only to fall quiet when fixed with a patented Price stare. "Right, sorry, Cap." 

John's urging you forward then, that hand on your back now climbing, settling at the scruff of your neck, guiding you into motion as he marches forth, leaving you waving at the boys over your shoulder with an apologetic grin. "We'll be back later!" 

"Thought we'd at least get through the morning without seeing the muppets." John huffs when he finally rounds the corner and is out of earshot.

"Aww, I'm glad we didn't." You muse, sparing a glance John's way to see if he truly is as irritated as he sounds. His brows are drawn, and he seems lost in a thought that you hope to pick. "Do you have a busy day ahead then?"

"Just paperwork, s'why I told you to bring something to keep you occupied, love." His tight-lipped smile doesn't quite meet his eyes, and that just won't do.

"My plan to annoy you just went out the window then." You tease, nudging the man with your hip until you draw out a more genuine grin. 

Despite your jovial nature, the word 'annoying' is tainted for you, barbed with a history you don't wish to see repeated. Your joke masks your need for reassurance, but John sees right through you, just as he always does.

"You're never annoying, bunny. Brought you along so I could have some good company for once." The hand on your neck strokes soothingly, intentionally.

You preen at the praise, your heart swelling now that you know John craves your presence and prefers your company most of all. "Really? Simon's not a chatterbox? I'm surprised." You giggle.

"Only about the footie." John supplies. "And Soap's not known for his intellectual conversation, even if the lad's smarter than he lets on." 

"What about Kyle?" You ask thoughtfully.

"He's not you."

The words echo through the hall, just like they reverberate through your mind. 

A few more twists and turns, and you find yourself before a shiny nameplate, Captain John Price staring back at you in printed letters.

The door to John's office sweeps open, and he steps aside to allow you inside. His hand falls away, leaving an icy chill to settle in its place.

Your footsteps are tentative, your heart beating faster, and your head on a swivel as your greedy eyes try to seek out every little detail. 

It's not as nice as his home, that's for sure. Military-standard beige paint is slapped on the walls, which are decorated with a few commendations and certificates.

His desk is home to a few more personal touches, a framed photo of the 141, the engraved pen you'd gotten him one Christmas. The office chair is well-worn leather, the same 

warm brown as the plush couch nestled against the far wall. 

You wonder how many nights John has spent tucked up there instead of returning to an empty home. He'd let it slip once, his proclivity for sleeping on this very couch instead of in his bed, and tried to backpedal when you'd gotten upset about it, had soothed you until you stopped pouting.

The room still smells distinctly of John, his scent clinging to the walls and inviting you in.

"Get comfy." He says, gesturing to the couch as he heads for his desk and sinks into the chair, which wheezes under the muscular heft of his body. "Hopefully it doesn't smell of smoke, love, tried my best to air it out." 

"It doesn't, don't worry."

You pick up your bag, which he has set beside his desk, and make your way over the couch. The cool leather sticks to where your thighs are exposed past the hem of your dress, and there are no throws or pillows to save you from it. "I'll have to make you a blanket for here, too; it isn't exactly cosy." You muse. 

John opens his work laptop and is already focused on the screen, but he offers you a glance over the top of it. "The lads are already giving me grief over the one at the house." He says, but there's nothing in his words to suggest his opposition to the idea. Despite any teasing or posturing, you know John loves his homemade blanket. 

"They're just jealous you've got something made with love." You gasp as you pull out your current project, which isn't for him, but you do note to yourself to get to work on another throw, only partially in hopes of being invited back.

"Damn right they are." He nods, eyes soft before they flicker back to his screen. "Lucky to have you, sweetheart." He adds, with an uncharacteristic shyness to his tone. 

You swallow thickly, unable to quickly summon a response to his admission. The atmosphere of the room suddenly feels fragile, somehow, John seemingly more vulnerable than ever. 

"Lucky to have you, too, John." You finally croak in response, earning you a tender look from over the laptop screen. 

The two of you get lost in a comfortable, companionable silence after that—you curled up on the couch, hook in hand and thoughts in the clouds, while John types away with ever-present scowl.

Early morning turns to midday in a slow, steady crawl. You make big progress on your current garment, and from the little bit of chatter you exchange, John has made a sizable dent in his ever-growing inbox.

Word of your arrival on base must've spread, as the morning has gone undisturbed, an anomaly, according to John, at least until one knock comes along.

"Come in," John calls, his voice betraying none of the faint irritation you see on his features when you glance over. 

The door peels open, and a sheepish-looking Kyle steps inside. 

"The report you asked for." He utters, passing off a file to his captain while his gaze is firmly fixed on you. 

Part of you starts to feel like a bloody zoo exhibit, the way Kyle's eyes take in the scene of you sitting and crocheting on the couch like it's some sort of fascinating secret. 

"Cheers, Gaz." 

John's response falls on deaf ears, as Kyle turns fully to you to address you directly. "Coming to the pub tonight?"

You pause, unknowing of how to respond. You look to John, who is already looking at you, a silent conversation passing between the two of you. 

Can we go? Your eyes plead. 

Do we have to? His say in return.

Your intent is clear—you love the boys' company, and even more, you love the insight into a side of John you don't often get to see. The 141 is his true family, the ones he feels most at ease around. While James is his blood, there was always a sense of hesitation, reservation, built-up walls and carefully constructed masks. 

Around Johnny, Kyle and Simon, John is different, and you like that side of him too much to let the opportunity pass you by. 

John accepts defeat with a sigh that has him sinking deeper into his chair. "Only if you're really up for it, love." 

The words are barely out of his mouth before Kyle is beaming. "Sounds like a plan."

You can't help but grin, too, excitement already building. 

"Say, Cap, did you tidy? Looks fit to host company, for once." Kyle comments, not a hint of subtlety in his tone.

"One drink." John insists and expects the statement and avoidance of the question to work as a dismissal. When Kyle stays put and is about to speak again, John barks out an order.  "Out, Garrick, you'll see her later." 

Once again, the younger man looks sheepish. "Yes, Captain." He turns quickly, pulling the door shut behind him and leaving the two of you alone once more. 

Kyle's motivation for dropping off a file was entirely conspicuous, none of the subtlety you'd expect from a trained SAS operative. He's curious, though, whether it's about you, your place in John's life, or the way the older man acts around you; you're unsure. Perhaps it's a combination of the three, a mutual intrigue as the two sides of John's life slowly become one. 

"Lunch?" John asks, interrupting your train of thought. 

You're on your feet before you can even answer. "Please."

You don't have particularly high hopes for the lunch you'll receive on base, but it's another part of exploring John's world, and your grumbling stomach and steadily lowering blood sugar care little for the height of culinary delights right now. 

John finishes up on his laptop, closing it before he rises too, and leads the way by your side. 

Now in the middle of the day, there are more people on base, more soldiers whose eyes flicker curiously between the grizzled old captain and his younger, sweeter counterpart. It almost draws giggles from you, the confused looks and distant whispers.

"Captain." A feminine voice catches your attention, as you look over to see a neatly dressed soldier, a little older than yourself, smiling at John as she passes by. 

"Private." John returns, tone clipped, eyes barely straying to acknowledge her.

The soldier, undeterred, turns to you next, expression tighter. "Miss."

"Hello." You greet politely, perfunctorily.

You're not blind to the way her eyes rake over John's form in appreciation, and over you with curiosity. Your jaw tightens as you force a smile onto your face, one which only drops when John leads you away.

The feeling that twists within you is unfamiliar, a green-eyed monster that has long lain dormant within you. 

All because a woman, a professional, smiled at John, looked at him with a sparkle of attraction. He's not yours to guard like an untrained pup with resource anxiety; he doesn't belong to you as a man does to his partner. 

He's your friend, and yet still, there's a tightness in your throat and unease in your veins—both of which you're desperate to conceal from the man beside you.

Leaning in to John, you drop your voice to a whisper, trying your hardest to sound casual and unaffected. "It must be nice, commanding all this respect."

At that, John grunts, not at you, but at the reality of his situation. "Wears off after a while, can't walk anywhere without a bloody welcome party ." 

"Somebody's grumpy." You tease, a wicked grin on your face shining in the face of John's grouchiness. 

"Late lunch does that to me." 

"Note to self to be extra prompt with dinners going forward." You comment, continuing your teasing. You're unsure what makes your next words tumble free so easily. Perhaps because deep down you know John will be riled by it, perhaps there's a sense of pettiness too, payback for a slight he didn't even commit. "So, are any of your boys single?" 

"Absolutely not." He snaps back in an instant.

The sternness of it should make you pause, but in the silly mood you're in, it only rips laughter from you. "Absolutely not single, or I'm absolutely not getting an answer?" 

John arches a brow, puts on his most commanding face, the one with the heavy eyes and downturned lips. "Move it." 

"Aye, captain." You giggle, offering him a mock salute before you speed down the hall in compliance, away from his glare and the consequences of your teasing that you don't really wish to escape.

You secretly love when he busts out the captain tone, directs it your way, making you feel all giddy and secure. You feel it now, that familiar little tingle in the back of your brain, even if you continue to tease him. 

"Going somewhere?" John has gained on you before you can even notice—speedy and stealthy. His hand wraps around your wrist, tugs you back just enough to slow your pace, until you're dwarfed beside him.

"You told me to move it, sir." 

"Smart arse." He scoffs fondly. "Didn't mean away from me. Be a good bunny and stay close, yeah?" 

The way he moves closer, drops his voice lower, it makes you weak in the knees—he surrounds you, in every sense. 

It's just playful, you remind yourself. Banter, nothing more. 

If you'd had a normal dream last night instead of an arousing one, you wouldn't be so desperate—your brain turns to bargaining.

"Okay." You squeak out, voice impressively steady despite yourself. You slow your pace further and don't shimmy free from John's hold. "How's this then?"