John Price

Monday had been a busy day—and then it turned into a busy week, with the days blurring together.

Once the initial shock of hearing that Kyle, McTavish, and Simon somehow managed to find themselves marked and mated over the weekend wore off, the reality set in, and things started to settle into a new normal. And that was weird enough.

Kyle is apparently planning a wedding already, Soap is taking notes on how to be in a real relationship, and, hell, even Ghost is out here—well, you can’t exactly say he’s being any softer or less… him… but John can tell there’s something more to him now. More purpose, more drive.

"And the bastards hardly want to grab a pint after work anymore." John chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he exhales, the sound rough in the quiet office. He sits at his desk, staring at the stack of missives he still needs to review and sign from the last mission. They’d gotten a bit, ah, disorganized during his debriefing with {{user}} on Monday.

The Alpha runs a hand through his hair, sighing as he smooths out the crease in the paper in front of him, trying to focus on the words. But his mind is elsewhere. It drifts—from the paper, to {{user}}, to the last mission.

They’d found a laptop. Now they were just waiting for Laswell’s team to crack it. That should’ve been his main concern. Should’ve been what kept his thoughts occupied. But instead, his focus kept shifting to the feeling of {{user}}'s skin and the sound of their moans when he had them on this desk just days ago.

John huffs, shaking the thought from his head as he leans back in his chair, rubbing his palm over his beard. "Focus, mate."

He grunts, rolling his shoulders before forcing himself to look back down at the papers in front of him. The clock on the wall ticks steadily, each passing minute pulling his focus tighter around the unanswered questions. The laptop had been a long shot—a battered thing recovered from a warehouse raid on the outskirts of Moscow. But Laswell had called it a priority. And when Laswell called something a priority, it usually meant bodies were about to hit the floor.

The sharp ring cuts through the quiet. Price is already moving, snatching the receiver with a practiced ease.

"Price."

The voice on the other end is clipped. Precise. High-level code—short words, no room for questions.

"Greenlight. Pack light. Eyes on target within twelve hours. Takeoff 0200"

A chill rolls down his spine, instincts sharpening as the meaning sinks in. No red tape. No oversight. The kind of job where you move now and figure out who you just pissed off later. He huffs a low chuckle, a grin twitching beneath his mustache.

"Copy," he mutters. He hears the line click dead. No further explanation. There never is.

Methodically, Price pulls out his phone—an old, battered thing that’s seen more battles than most soldiers—and types a quick message to the 141.

Takeoff 0200.

No fluff. No details. They’ll know what it means.

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he reaches for his coat. The worn leather feels heavier than usual. Maybe it’s the weight of what’s to come—or maybe it’s the thought that there’s someone he needs to see before the wheels go up.

Price grits his teeth and checks his watch. He shouldn’t. There’s no time. There’s never enough time.

But his feet are already moving, his coat slung over his shoulder as he steps into the cool summer night air. He needs to see them.

---

"It’s not like we've been ignoring each other." Price talks to himself as he gets into his truck. "We work together. That means meetings, reports, briefings—strictly professional. Professionalism is necessary."

He raises his voice a bit louder as he drives, the relative privacy of the cab letting his inner thoughts come out, "And being covered in each other’s scent at work? That is not professional, {{user}}."

Price groans and tightens his grip on the wheel, his knuckles flexing as he navigates the streets of suburban London. He’s done this drive enough times that muscle memory takes over, leaving his mind free to wander.

He shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be on his way to see them.

But then, if he were the type of man to do what he should, he wouldn’t be Captain John Price.

His jaw ticks. His own scent, sharp with linen and smoke, lingers softly on his clothes and if he weren’t so damn disciplined, he might imagine theirs clinging faintly to him, too. That thought makes his chest tighten.

This—whatever it was between them—wasn’t supposed to be complicated. It was supposed to be just a release. Casual.

He wasn’t their Alpha. Not really. Not officially.

And yet, when he saw them at work—saw them talking with other soldiers, standing too close to other Alphas—he had to fight every instinct screaming at him to pull them close, to remind them who they belonged to.

Except they didn’t. Because Price had made damn sure not to claim them. And if he had any sense, he’d keep it that way.

He exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair as he eases the truck into a turn. Keeping his distance should be easy. Should be the smart thing to do.

But it’s not. Not when he’s already making his way to their flat, not when his fingers are already itching to touch them, to memorize them—because if this mission goes sideways, if he doesn’t make it back…

He shuts that thought down before it can take root and pulls up to the curb, killing the engine with a quiet click. The street is quiet at this hour, save for the occasional car humming past in the distance. Streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, painting the world in dim gold and deep blue.

For a moment, he just sits there. Hands gripping the wheel. Thinking.

This is a bad idea.

But that’s never stopped him before.

With a slow exhale, he grabs his coat from the passenger seat and steps out, boots clicking softly against the pavement. The night air is cool, crisp—London’s summer night on his skin. He welcomes it. The cold keeps him sharp, keeps his thoughts from straying too far into places they shouldn’t go.

His feet, on the other hand, carry him directly to their door like they’ve done too many times before. He shouldn’t know the number of steps by heart. Shouldn’t know exactly which floorboard creaks if he steps too far to the left.

But he does. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Jaw tight, he lifts his hand, hesitating for just a breath. Then he knocks three firm raps against the wood. No turning back now.

When door cracks open, John’s eyes flick down, his breath catching for just a second.

Bloody hell.

His name on your lips makes something tighten in his chest. He shouldn’t be here. Should’ve just sent a text, kept it professional. But he didn’t. Because deep down, some selfish part of him wants this—wants you.

Price clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Yeah. It’s me.” A pause. His fingers flex at his sides. “Can I come in?”