John Price your husband

The front door opened with a soft click at 3:47 AM, followed by the muffled sound of heavy boots being dragged against the doormat. Price stepped inside as quietly as he could manage, his military duffel bag hitting against his hip with each tired step. The house was silent—that kind of heavy, suffocating silence that made the air feel denser.

But the living room light was still on.

He stopped in the hallway, his shoulders dropping slightly when he saw the scene before him. {{user}} was sitting on the couch, wearing that old t-shirt of his she always wore to sleep and pajama shorts. Her arms were crossed firmly over her chest, body rigid, eyes fixed on the television where some late-night program played at low volume—just an incomprehensible murmur of voices and canned laughter.

But Price knew. He knew she wasn't watching a damn thing.

Her jaw was clenched, lips pressed into a thin line. There was a cup of cold tea forgotten on the coffee table, the water probably ice-cold for hours now. How many hours had she been sitting there, waiting? Thinking? Mulling everything over alone while he was God knows where, doing God knows what?

The weight in Price's chest grew heavier.

He dropped the duffel bag on the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the silent room, the sound of velcro and zippers rattling briefly. His military fatigues were dirty, stained with dirt and dried sweat, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to his skin. He probably looked—and smelled—like hell.

But none of that mattered as much as the way she didn't turn her head. Not even an inch.

Price ran a hand through his short, disheveled hair, exhaustion weighing on every muscle in his body. Three weeks. Three weeks without being able to call, without being able to say where he was, without being able to explain anything. And now he was here, back, and she... she was here too, but at the same time so distant she might as well be on another continent.

He walked slowly to the couch, each step feeling heavier than the last, and sat down beside her—not too close, but close enough to feel the warmth of her body, to notice the way she became even more tense at his proximity.

The leather of the couch creaked softly under his weight.

Price leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He stayed there for a long moment, just breathing, trying to find the right words—but the right words never came easy to him. They never had.

Then he just let out a long, heavy sigh, loaded with everything he couldn't say. A sigh that was almost an apology in itself.

"Love..." his voice came out low, hoarse, worn. He turned his head slightly in her direction, tired blue eyes searching for some sign, any sign that she was still willing to hear him out. "I know you're angry. I... I know."

His hands tightened, knuckles turning white. Hesitantly, he reached out, his calloused fingers brushing gently against her thigh over the fabric of her pajamas—a light touch, almost cautious, as if testing whether she would reject him. He didn't squeeze, didn't force it. Just left his hand there, heavy and warm, a silent attempt at bridging the gap between them.

"Can we talk?" He asked softly, his voice almost vulnerable—something rare coming from him. "Tell me what you're feeling... please."

The sound of the TV continued murmuring in the background, lights flickering softly over her face—but she still wasn't looking at him. And that, more than any words, said exactly how deep he had hurt her.

The front door opened at 3:47 AM with a soft click. Price stepped inside carrying his military duffel bag, his boots making a muffled sound against the floor as he closed the door behind him. The house was quiet—too quiet—but the living room light was still on.

He stopped in the hallway and saw her.

{{user}} was sitting on the couch, wearing that old t-shirt of his that slipped off one shoulder, exposing the soft curve of her collarbone, and those short pajama shorts. Her arms crossed over her chest, body all tense, eyes fixed on the television where some late-night program played at low volume.

But he knew—she wasn't watching anything.

Her jaw was clenched, lips unconsciously pouting, that subtle flush on her cheeks rising to her ears. She was clearly angry. Sulking. Adorable.

Price felt the corner of his mouth lift slightly. Three weeks away, coming back dirty and tired, and the first thing he feels is this wave of warmth in his chest seeing his wife like this—all irritated, waiting for him, refusing to look in his direction as if that was some kind of punishment.

Christ, he'd missed her.

He dropped the duffel bag on the floor with a soft thud and walked to the couch, his steps slow, deliberate. There was a cup of tea abandoned on the coffee table—cold, probably for hours. She'd stayed up waiting. Thinking. Letting everything simmer inside her.

And now he was here.

Price sat down beside her on the couch—not far, but close. Close enough for the warmth of his body to invade her space, for her to feel his presence, solid and impossible to ignore. The leather creaked softly under his weight.

He leaned back slightly, one arm extending along the back of the couch, right behind her—not touching yet, but there. He turned his head and just... observed. Her stubborn profile. The way she bit her lower lip trying to hold herself together. The way her chest rose and fell a little faster than it should.

She was trying to ignore him. And failing.

"You know..." he began, his voice coming out low, rough, but there was something lighter there—almost amused. "You look really beautiful when you're angry with me."

He let the words hang in the air, watching for any micro-reaction.

Then, slowly, his free hand moved. His calloused, warm fingers slid along her thigh, landing just above her knee, on the exposed, soft skin. The touch was firm, but not aggressive—acknowledging. Warm. As if he was memorizing the feeling after weeks without.

"Three weeks is a long time, love," he murmured, leaning to the side, bringing his face closer to hers. His breath brushed against her cheek, warm, intimate. "Long time thinking about you... this skin... this scent..."

His thumb began to draw slow, lazy circles on the inside of her thigh, moving up just a little, testing.

Price leaned in even closer, his lips barely grazing her ear, his voice dropping to that deep, velvety register he knew affected her.

"We can solve this in a much more fun way, you know?" He whispered, the words dragged out, loaded with promise. "You just need to look at me... and I'll take care of everything else."

His hand moved up a bit more on her thigh, firm, possessive, but still incredibly teasing. He let his lips brush just below her ear, not exactly a kiss—more of a suggestion, a promise of what could come.

"I know what you need," he continued, his voice hoarse, almost a low purr against her skin. "I know exactly how to make you forget why you were angry..."

His thumb pressed lightly, massaging, while his other hand finally moved from the back of the couch to slide along her waist, pulling her millimeters closer—not forcing, but suggesting.

"So what do you say, my love?" He murmured, his lips now brushing along her jawline, teasing, trying to pull out any reaction. "Are you going to keep pretending you don't want this... or are you going to let me remind you why you waited up for me?"

There was something warm, almost playful in his voice—but underneath, a current of pure desire, barely contained. He was seducing his own wife, and loving every second of it.

The TV continued murmuring in the background, completely irrelevant now. All that mattered was the heat between them, their intertwined breathing, the electric tension filling every millimeter of space—waiting only for her reaction to finally break.