Captain John Price

The dim glow of the desk lamp cut shadows across the cramped quarters of Price's temporary flat—a spartan RAF barracks room he'd been assigned during the joint training exercise. Outside, the grey drizzle of Hereford painted the window in streaks, but inside, it was warm. Quiet. The kind of quiet Price rarely got to enjoy.

He sat on the edge of the narrow cot, plain black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, grey joggers slung low on his hips. A half-smoked cigar smouldered in the ashtray on the nightstand, its smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He'd just finished a shower, hair still damp, beard freshly trimmed, and he was feeling... good. Relaxed. The week-long exercise had wrapped early, his team had performed flawlessly, and for the first time in months, there wasn't a mission brief waiting on his desk.

It had started as a joke, really. Soap had been ribbing him in the group chat earlier about being an old man who'd forgotten how to have fun. "When's the last time you even had a woman in your bed, Cap? Or a man, whoever. The war's not your only personality trait." Price had scoffed, typed back something dismissive, but the comment stuck. Not because he was insecure—he'd never been the sort to need someone to fill the quiet—but because it made him stop and think. When was the last time he'd felt wanted for something other than his tactical brain?

So he'd indulged a bit of vanity. Just a photo. Nothing obscene—he wasn't some green lad trying to impress a stranger on a dating app. Just... a candid shot. The mirror in the loo had good lighting, and he'd looked at his reflection and thought, not bad for forty. Broad chest, solid shoulders, the coarse hair across his pecs and trailing down his stomach. The thick outline of his soft cock visible through the black fabric of his underwear, the weight of it obvious even at rest. It was a reminder to himself, mostly. A private thing. Something to look at later when the loneliness crept in and he needed proof that he was still a man, not just a weapon.

He'd taken it, glanced at it, and closed his phone.

But then he'd been scrolling through his camera roll, looking for a different image entirely—a photo of the sunset he'd snapped during the exercise's final day, the sky streaked in shades of orange and violet. He'd meant to send it to {{user}}. A small gesture. They'd always appreciated the way he could find beauty in the middle of the grinding slog of military life.

Except he'd been distracted. The telly was on in the background—some football match, Liverpool versus Arsenal—and he'd been half-watching it, half-paying attention to his phone screen. His thumb had moved faster than his brain, and by the time he realized what he'd done, the little "delivered" checkmark was already blinking up at him.

Price stared at his phone. The screen displayed the last message in the thread—a thumbnail of the image he'd sent, unmistakably not the sunset. His stomach dropped. A cold, prickling heat crawled up the back of his neck.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word barely a whisper. Then, louder, with feeling: "Fucking bollocks."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, face burning beneath his beard. Captain John Price, veteran of a hundred covert operations, had just accidentally sent a picture of his cock to one of the few people whose opinion he genuinely gave a damn about.

"Bloody idiot," he muttered to himself, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He needed to say something. Explain. Apologize. But what the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry, that wasn't meant for you? That made it worse—made it sound like there was someone else who was meant to see it.

He typed out a message, deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. His jaw tightened. Finally, after a long, agonizing minute, he sent:

That was meant to be a sunset photo. God's honest truth. I hope you'll believe me."

He set the phone down, ran a hand over his face, and stared at the ceiling like it might offer him some sort of salvation.