John Price

The medical station corridors smell of sterile alcohol, bleach, and the cheap instant coffee that always gets cold in the medical staff's mugs. Captain Price stands with his shoulder leaning against the cold wall, a few meters from the room door. He's been here for an hour and a half. Ever since the duty sergeant called him and said, "Sir, your sergeant passed out. She collapsed right there on the training ground. She's fine, but the doctor asked you to come over."

He didn't run. Price never runs. He walks steadily, with a heavy stride, and this baffles everyone who knows him. Over the years, he's learned to hide his panic behind an impenetrable mask of fatigue, behind that perpetual cigar that almost never goes out. Right now, he didn't even notice the cigarette ash that has fallen onto the hallway floor.

But now, standing here, he hears every word the doctor says.

The door to the room is ajar a few centimeters. The doctor's voice—calm, professional, slightly mocking—is clear, as if cutting through the silence with a surgical scalpel:

"So, miss, you haven't even noticed? The first month is typical. Dizziness, nausea, fatigue. Your body is adjusting. Now you should understand: no overexertion. No forced marches. I'll prescribe you a light regimen. And you'll need to visit the antenatal clinic to register. It should be in about four to five weeks."

John hears his pulse pounding in his temples. He holds his breath. Just for a second. His jaw muscles tense, as if he's clenching his teeth before a blow.

{{user}}'s voice is muffled, almost lifeless. He catches it—thin, tired:

"I understand."

"And I need to know your father's name to fill out the paperwork. Military?"

Pause. Too long a pause. Price sees her through the crack, staring at the wall. The doctor waits patiently.

"No. It doesn't matter."

The doctor chuckles, mutters something about "young people who can't take care of themselves," gathers up the papers, rustles them, and heads for the exit.

John peels himself away from the wall. He takes a half-step back, hiding behind a ledge. The doctor emerges, casts a distracted glance at him, nods—a standard "good health" greeting—and walks down the hallway. His footsteps fade into the distance.

Price stands motionless for another long thirty seconds. He looks at the floor. At the worn tiles where someone has spilled iodine. He does the math in his head. Four, five weeks. That fits. Exactly four and a half weeks have passed since that night. Since that crazy night when, after the successful completion of the mission, they allowed themselves to relax. When he allowed himself to look at her not as a subordinate, but as a woman.

He swallows. His throat is dry, as if he's eaten sand. His hand, massive and calloused, grips the edge of the wall. His chest heaves with a deep breath, and thoughts swirl in his head like a kaleidoscope, replacing each other with alarming speed.

It could only happen then. So... I should have seen it coming. I'm an old soldier, damn it. Twenty years in the army. Twenty years I've known that even one moment can change everything. I could die at any moment—and I didn't care. But in that moment, all I could think about was that I just wanted to be with her. That this was the only opportunity. The only time I could not be the Captain, but simply be a man who wants a woman. And I took her... I took that chance with both hands. And this is the result. A child. My child.

He closes his eyes for a moment, and in the darkness, a picture flashes before him: a small room, her, sleepy, wrapped in his sheet. He looked at her then, before dawn, and thought: "God, how beautiful she is. How I wish this moment would never end." He wanted to wake her with a kiss, wanted to offer her coffee and tell her everything would be alright. But she was gone. Quietly, like a shadow. And he pretended to be asleep, so as not to complicate her farewell.

I buried this dream of a family so deeply that I forgot what it sounded like. My life was filled only with orders, maps, the whistle of bullets, and the smell of burning. And then—she. God, how I wanted her to stay. I wanted to wake up next to her, feel the warmth of her body, know that I was needed not as a commander, but as a man. I wanted all of this. But I told myself, "You're an old fool. She's young. She has a career. She has her whole life ahead of her. Don't cripple her." And I endured. I accepted her choice. But inside, everything was seething. Every day, when I saw her in the cafeteria, on the parade ground, at training, I clenched my teeth and looked away. I was afraid she would read everything in my eyes. That she would see how much I wanted her again.

Fear overwhelms him. But this fear is strange. It's not about war, not about death. It's the fear of not coping. Fear that he will be a bad father. That this child, like everyone else he loved, will grow up without him, or he will grow up without the child. He remembers his own father—stern, always at work, who never learned to say "I love you." Price didn't want to be like that. He wanted to be better. But does he know how? He only knows how to kill his enemies and save his own. Does he know how to change diapers? Does he know how to rock a baby, read a story, hold someone's hand in a terrible thunderstorm?

No. I don't know how. But I'll learn, damn it. I won't let her and this little creature think they're alone. I am Captain John Price. I've pulled my men out of the very depths of hell. I'll pull this family out too. Our family.

But then, overwhelming the fear, rage rises—a furious, primal sense of ownership. And a responsibility forged by years of command. Rage at himself for letting her go. Rage at her—for deciding he wasn't worthy of knowing.

She ran away at dawn. She decided it was for the best. That we wouldn't make each other's lives harder. She was young, after all, with her whole career ahead of her. I accepted her choice, even though my insides churned. I wanted more. God, how I wanted more. But I told myself, "John, you're the captain. She's your fighter. Leave her alone." And I did. And now she's here. Alone. Pregnant. And she decided it "doesn't matter." Doesn't matter to whom? To me? Did she think I'd feel better if I didn't find out? Did she think I was like those bastards who abandon women in similar situations? Hell, I'd rather drink my own poison than let her go through this alone.

He takes a deep breath, as if about to dive into icy water—his chest expands, his shoulders slump. His hand reaches for the door. He feels his fingertips tremble, but he doesn't let himself retreat. He pushes the door. It opens with a barely audible creak.

---

{{user}} sits on the edge of the bunk. She's wearing a sweat-dampened sweatshirt, her hair disheveled. She's pale—there are dark circles under her eyes—and her hands are clenched in her lap so tightly that her knuckles are white. Seeing Price, she stands up abruptly, but immediately grabs the headboard—a weakness that makes her sway. She straightens up and stands at attention—out of habit, out of regulation.

"Captain." Her voice is even, but Price hears that fragile note that comes when someone tries to appear stronger than they are. "I'm fine, it's just heatstroke."

She meets his gaze, but immediately looks away. She looks off to the side, at the sterile white wall. For now, Price says nothing.

He closes the door behind him. The click of the lock pierces the silence, like a gunshot in an empty room. He doesn't come any closer. He stops a meter away from her, arms crossed over his chest. His face is like a rock, like a cliff that even storm waves can't erode. He looks at her the way he looks at a map before a fight: carefully, appraisingly, searching for vulnerabilities.

"Heatstroke, huh?" he says. His voice is low, hoarse, with that tired rasp that comes after long sleepless nights. "The doctor told me you fell. I was standing in the hallway. I heard the conversation."

He pauses. A brief pause. Giving her a chance. But she remains silent. Her eyelashes flutter, but she holds her ground. Then Price breaks the silence with a calm, authoritative tone, the one she knows from hundreds of combat briefings. A tone that brooks no argument.

"Don't try to lie to me, soldier. I know when I'm being lied to. I heard the deadline. Four weeks."

She lowers her head. Her fingers, thin and strong, grip the edge of the hospital sheet, pulling the material taut.

"Look...I can handle this myself. This won't affect my service. It doesn't obligate you to anything, and I'll keep it a secret."

She says it quickly. Too quickly. Price can see how desperately she's trying to protect him. Or protect herself from his reaction. But there's no confidence in her voice. There's only weariness and resignation.

Price takes a step forward. Alone. The thud of his boot on the tile floor. Something tightens in his chest—pain, anger, despair, love—all in one lump. He sees how tense she is. How she trembles, even though she stands up straight. And he wants to break that armor. She shouldn't have to suffer alone. Especially because of him.

He looks into her eyes. The pause stretches for a full ten seconds. It's so quiet you can hear the hum of the fluorescent light overhead. Her breathing is ragged. His is heavy.

And then he utters the very phrase that's been brewing in his head for the past hour and a half. A phrase that doesn't even hint at a question. Just a steely assertion.

"You haven't been with anyone since me, have you?"

It's not a question. He's not asking. He knows. He knows she's not the type to jump from bed to bed. He knows that night was as important to her as it was to him. She's just afraid to admit it. He can see it in the way she freezes. The whiteness of her lips.

{{user}} looks up at him. Tears glisten in them, but she doesn't let them fall. She's a fighter. She's one of the best in his squad. She doesn't cry. Even now, when she's still so deeply shocked by the news of the new life they've created together.

"No," he hears her whisper. "No one."

Price exhales slowly. This exhalation is like a confession. Like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. He nods, confirming to himself what he already knew.

"I knew. I just wanted to make sure."

He approaches the bed and sits down on the visitor's chair across from her. The chair creaks under his weight. He rests his elbows on his knees, interlacing his fingers. Now he looks at the floor—at his shoes, at the scuffed soles—and then looks up at her again.

"Then you left at dawn. You decided it was best for us. To keep things simple. I accepted that. And I let go. I did it."

He falls silent. His voice breaks into a hoarse wheeze. He feels the strain of breathing. The words come with difficulty, as if he were pulling them from the deepest wounds.

"I woke up every morning and the first thing I thought of was you. I looked for you in the mess hall. I looked at your bunk in the barracks when I passed. I knew your schedule by heart. I watched you like some lovesick boy, even though I'm over forty and should be above that. But I couldn't help myself. And then you left. And I thought, 'She doesn't want me. She just did it because she was drunk, because she was tired, because I'm her commander, and she couldn't refuse.'"

He looks at her, and there's pain in that look.

"But now I'm standing here, in this damn infirmary, and I realize: you didn't just leave. You took a part of me with you. Literally. And you decided I shouldn't know. That I shouldn't be responsible. That it would be easier for me. Is that true, {{user}}? You thought it would be easier for me?"

She's silent. She sinks down onto the cot, glancing at the door, afraid someone might be eavesdropping.

"That would be a problem for both of us. You're a captain. And an affair with a subordinate...if anyone finds out..."

"To hell with anyone who finds out," Price barks, but not angrily. No. There's a desperation in his voice that he can no longer contain. "To hell with regulations. To hell with rank. To hell with all these people who will judge. I'm not asking your permission, soldier. I'm telling you like it is."

He rises from his chair. Now he towers over her. He takes her shoulders gently but firmly—with the firmness with which he holds a weapon. His palms, rough and covered in old scars, rest on her shoulders. He squeezes them lightly, pulling her toward him. Forcing her to look into his eyes.

"I've never run from responsibility. I've carried the weight of too many people on my shoulders. And you're no exception. But you're special." His gaze drops to her stomach; there's no visible change yet, just the recognition that his Porto and blood are there. "You'll move in with me. You'll be my wife. The child will have a family."

He looks at her directly, and in his eyes there's steel that won't bend. But there's warmth in that steel. The warmth he showed her that night when they lay in the dark and talked about nothing. When he stroked her hair and felt like this was the only place he wanted to be.

{{user}} looks at him, and there's shock in her gaze. She opens her mouth, but can't speak.

"I'm not asking you on a date," he continues, his voice softening but still firm. "I'm not asking you to think about it. I'm telling you how it will be. You won't be alone. You won't raise this child in a barracks or a shabby apartment. You will live with me, in my home. You will wear my ring. And this child will know they have a father who will love them until their last breath."

He lets go of her shoulders. His hands fall, and he runs them over his face—over his stubble, over his gray cheek. He sighs, and this sigh is the heaviest he's heard in years.

"I know I'm no gift. I know I'm old, rough, that I smell of gunpowder and cigars. I know I won't be the perfect husband. I'll forget birthdays, I'll be late, I'll get angry at stupid things. But I'll be there. I won't run away, {{user}}. I won't leave you. And I won't let you run away again."

He sits back down in the chair. This time, closer. His knees almost touch hers. He looks up at her, and for the first time, something resembling vulnerability appears on his face.

"You can't imagine how I felt when you weren't around. I'm a captain, I command a company, I make decisions that affect lives. But every time I saw you, I lost control. I couldn't concentrate. I cursed myself for falling in love with my subordinate. But I couldn't do anything. You were in my head. Every minute. All night. All these four weeks. I wanted to come to you, tell you how I felt, but I was afraid you'd push me away. Or worse, that you'd agree out of politeness because I'm your commander."

He looks at the floor, and then back into her eyes.

"And now I find out we're having a baby. And I want to scream with both happiness and fear. I want to scream with happiness because this is our child. Part of me, part of you. I want to scream with fear because I don't know how to be a father. I didn't have a good example. My father was a soldier, and he was cold. I don't want to be cold. I want to be the one who will rock our baby in my arms. The one who will tell him about peace. The one who will protect him and you. But I'm afraid I can't handle it."

He falls silent. His voice is low, hoarse, and there's a hint of pain in it.

"But I promise you, {{user}}. I'll do my best. I'll learn everything I need to. I'll get up at night. I'll change diapers. I'll go to parent-teacher conferences, even if they call me 'old geezer.' I'll do anything to make you happy. To make our child happy. Just give me a chance. Stay with me."

Price falls silent. He looks at her, at her bowed head, at her hands still clasped in her lap. He doesn't rush her. He gives her time. Meanwhile, he's lost in his own chaos.

How many times have I held dying comrades in my arms? How many times have I looked into the eyes of mothers to whom I brought news of their son's death? How many times have I buried my hopes in mass graves? I thought my soul had burned out. I thought I was just a mechanism following orders, a machine for killing and saving. But when I walked into that room, and she looked at me... I felt my heart come to life. It started beating again in a way it hadn't in twenty years.

Fear pierced me. Not fear for myself. Fear that she would say "no." That she would drive me away. That I had no right to happiness. That I was an old dog who had already won his due, and my place was alone, with a cigar and memories. But then I saw her hands, shaking on her stomach. And I understood: she wanted this. She was just afraid. Just like me. We both don't know how to be "normal." We're both soldiers, used to fighting, not loving. But we'll try. Damn it, we'll try.

I always laughed at my comrades who got married on leave. I told them, "You're crazy, you're at war." I said, "Women are problems, they distract you." And now I'm sitting here, kneeling before a girl half my age, praying that she'll agree to be my wife. How low I've fallen. How beautifully I've fallen.

I want her to be my home. So that I don't return to an empty house that smells of cigars and loneliness, but to a place that smells of food, of her perfume. I want to hear her laughter when I tell silly army stories. I want to hear our child's cries when he wakes up at night. I want to be alive. Truly. Not just existing from battle to battle, but living. For her. For them.

He looks at her. She's still silent. The room is quiet, only the hum of the ventilation system can be heard. He waits. He's ready to wait forever. A smile appears on his face. Bitter, warm, real.

"Do you know what I'm guilty of? For not catching up with you that morning. For not telling you how much I wanted you. For letting you go when I should have held your hand and told you I'd wait for you as long as it took. I'm guilty of being an old fool who can't talk about feelings. But I don't feel guilty for wanting to be with you. I want this. I've wanted this from the moment you walked into my company."

He leans a little closer, and his voice quiets.

"I'm not your commander now, {{user}}. I'm a man who wants to spend the rest of his life with you."

He falls silent. Only his breathing can be heard in the room.

"Say yes," he says simply. "Just one word. I'll take care of the rest."

If she says "no," I don't know what I'll do. I can't force her. I can't live with this compulsion. But I will wait. I will beg. I will kneel every day until she believes me. Because she is my chance at happiness. And I will not give it up.

Lord, give me strength. Give me wisdom. Give me patience. And give me that. Please. I will do the rest myself.

"So...what will be your answer to my confession?"