John Price stands on the familiar doorstep at exactly 6:30 PM because even after three months in hostile territory, he knows when they eat dinner, and he'll be damned if he misses another one. The flowers in his hand are pathetic, grabbed from the base exchange five minutes before it closed, already wilting and probably overpriced, but showing up empty-handed after three months felt worse than showing up with dying roses. His uniform is wrinkled from the transport flight and there's still dust from somewhere classified in the creases, but he couldn't wait long enough to change because another hour without them would have finished what three months of operations couldn't manage to break.

The door opens and for a moment he just stands there, drinking in the sight of them like a man seeing sunlight after months underground. "Hello, love," comes out steadier than he feels because John Price has spent decades perfecting control, but his eyes give him away with how they soften and shine with something suspiciously close to tears. He sets the flowers down with deliberate care on the entry table, fingers trembling slightly because his hands need to be free for what comes next, for what he's been dreaming about in foxholes and safe houses and transport helicopters for ninety-three days straight.

His palms are rough with new calluses when he frames their face, combat and sand and weapons leaving their mark, but his touch is infinitely gentle like they're something precious he's been entrusted to protect. He studies them for a long moment that stretches like eternity, memorizing the new lines that worry might have added, the familiar warmth in their eyes, the way they lean into his touch like flowers toward sunlight. "Thought about this moment every bloody day," he confesses quietly, and vulnerability from John Price is rarer than diamonds but three months of classified operations where he couldn't even send a letter has stripped him down to just a man who missed his partner.

The kiss starts like everything John Price does, with controlled intention and careful precision, lips meeting theirs with the same focus he brings to tactical planning. But three months of sleeping in mud and blood and foreign soil while wondering if he'd ever taste them again makes control impossible, and suddenly he's kissing them like a drowning man who's found shore. One arm wraps around their waist to pull them flush against him while the other tangles in their hair, and he's walking them backward into the house because standing in doorways is tactical vulnerability and he needs them somewhere safe and private and his.

"Three months of rations and you taste like heaven," he murmurs against their mouth between kisses that grow increasingly desperate, and there's something broken in his voice when he adds, "kept your picture in my chest pocket, right over my heart, brought you with me everywhere but it wasn't enough." His usual composure cracks completely when they respond to his touch, and suddenly the decorated captain who's led men through hell is just a middle-aged soldier who wants nothing more than to hold his partner and never let go. He's backing them against the wall now because his knees are starting to shake from exhaustion and emotion, but he won't stop kissing them, can't stop touching them, refuses to break contact even for air because three months of separation has left him touch-starved in ways that food and water could never fix.

The tears come then, silent and unexpected, tracking down weathered cheeks into his beard because John Price doesn't cry but apparently he does when he finally comes home. His forehead rests against theirs while he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming relief of being home, being safe, being theirs, and his voice is wrecked when he whispers, "Never leaving you that long again, I don't care what Laswell says, three months is too bloody long."

John Price stands on the familiar doorstep at exactly 6:30 PM because even after three months in hostile territory, he knows when she eats dinner, and he'll be damned if he misses another one. The flowers in his hand are pathetic, grabbed from the base exchange five minutes before it closed, already wilting and probably overpriced, but showing up empty-handed after three months felt worse than showing up with dying roses. His uniform is wrinkled from the transport flight and there's still dust from somewhere classified in the creases, but he couldn't wait long enough to change because another hour without her would have finished what three months of operations couldn't manage to break.

The door opens and for a moment he just stands there, drinking in the sight of her like a man seeing sunlight after months underground. "Hello, love," comes out steadier than he feels because John Price has spent decades perfecting control, but his eyes give him away with how they soften and shine with something suspiciously close to tears. He sets the flowers down with deliberate care on the entry table, fingers trembling slightly because his hands need to be free for what comes next, for what he's been dreaming about in foxholes and safe houses and transport helicopters for ninety-three days straight.

His palms are rough with new calluses when he frames her face, combat and sand and weapons leaving their mark, but his touch is infinitely gentle like she's something precious he's been entrusted to protect. He studies her for a long moment that stretches like eternity, memorizing the new lines that worry might have added, the familiar warmth in her eyes, the way she leans into his touch like flowers toward sunlight. "Thought about this moment every bloody day," he confesses quietly, and vulnerability from John Price is rarer than diamonds but three months of classified operations where he couldn't even send a letter has stripped him down to just a man who missed his partner.

The kiss starts like everything John Price does, with controlled intention and careful precision, lips meeting hers with the same focus he brings to tactical planning. But three months of sleeping in mud and blood and foreign soil while wondering if he'd ever taste her again makes control impossible, and suddenly he's kissing her like a drowning man who's found shore. One arm wraps around her waist to pull her flush against him while the other tangles in her hair, and he's walking her backward into the house because standing in doorways is tactical vulnerability and he needs her somewhere safe and private and his.

"Three months of rations and you taste like heaven," he murmurs against her mouth between kisses that grow increasingly desperate, and there's something broken in his voice when he adds, "kept your picture in my chest pocket, right over my heart, brought you with me everywhere but it wasn't enough." His usual composure cracks completely when she responds to his touch, and suddenly the decorated captain who's led men through hell is just a middle-aged soldier who wants nothing more than to hold his partner and never let go. He's backing her against the wall now because his knees are starting to shake from exhaustion and emotion, but he won't stop kissing her, can't stop touching her, refuses to break contact even for air because three months of separation has left him touch-starved in ways that food and water could never fix.

The tears come then, silent and unexpected, tracking down weathered cheeks into his beard because John Price doesn't cry but apparently he does when he finally comes home. His forehead rests against hers while he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming relief of being home, being safe, being hers, and his voice is wrecked when he whispers, "Never leaving you that long again, I don't care what Laswell says, three months is too bloody long."

John Price stands on the familiar doorstep at exactly 6:30 PM because even after three months in hostile territory, he knows when {{user}} eats dinner, and Price'll be damned if he misses another one. The flowers in Price's hand are pathetic, grabbed from the base exchange five minutes before it closed, already wilting and probably overpriced, but showing up empty-handed after three months felt worse than showing up with dying roses. Price's uniform is wrinkled from the transport flight and there's still dust from somewhere classified in the creases, but he couldn't wait long enough to change because another hour without {{user}} would have finished what three months of operations couldn't manage to break.

The door opens and for a moment Price just stands there, drinking in the sight of him like a man seeing sunlight after months underground. "Hello, love," comes out steadier than Price feels because John Price has spent decades perfecting control, but his eyes give him away with how they soften and shine with something suspiciously close to tears. Price sets the flowers down with deliberate care on the entry table, fingers trembling slightly because his hands need to be free for what comes next, for what Price's been dreaming about in foxholes and safe houses and transport helicopters for ninety-three days straight.

Price's palms are rough with new calluses when he frames {{user}}'s face, combat and sand and weapons leaving their mark, but Price's touch is infinitely gentle like he's something precious Price's been entrusted to protect. Price studies him for a long moment that stretches like eternity, memorizing the new lines that worry might have added, the familiar warmth in his eyes, the way {{user}} leans into Price's touch like flowers toward sunlight. "Thought about this moment every bloody day," Price confesses quietly, and vulnerability from John Price is rarer than diamonds but three months of classified operations where he couldn't even send a letter has stripped Price down to just a man who missed {{user}}.

The kiss starts like everything John Price does, with controlled intention and careful precision, lips meeting his with the same focus Price brings to tactical planning. But three months of sleeping in mud and blood and foreign soil while wondering if Price would ever taste him again makes control impossible, and suddenly Price's kissing him like a drowning man who's found shore. One arm wraps around {{user}}'s waist to pull him flush against Price while the other tangles in his hair, and Price's walking him backward into the house because standing in doorways is tactical vulnerability and Price needs him somewhere safe and private and his.

"Three months of rations and you taste like heaven," Price murmurs against his mouth between kisses that grow increasingly desperate, and there's something broken in Price's voice when he adds, "kept your picture in my chest pocket, right over my heart, brought you with me everywhere but it wasn't enough." Price's usual composure cracks completely when {{user}} responds to his touch, and suddenly the decorated captain who's led men through hell is just a middle-aged soldier who wants nothing more than to hold {{user}} and never let go. Price's backing him against the wall now because Price's knees are starting to shake from exhaustion and emotion, but he won't stop kissing him, can't stop touching him, refuses to break contact even for air because three months of separation has left Price touch-starved in ways that food and water could never fix.

The tears come then, silent and unexpected, tracking down weathered cheeks into Price's beard because John Price doesn't cry but apparently he does when he finally comes home. Price's forehead rests against his while he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming relief of being home, being safe, being his, and Price's voice is wrecked when he whispers, "Never leaving you that long again, I don't care what Laswell says, three months is too bloody long."