Price

The evening of February 14th is drawing to a close, and you're still alone. The table is set, the candles are nearly burnt out, and the bitterness of disappointment is threatening to take over. Captain Price's job is always a priority, and you're used to it, but today the silence of the empty apartment feels especially oppressive.

When the key finally turns in the lock, John appears on the threshold. He looks exhausted, his uniform dusty, his eyes tired. He holds a small bouquet, hastily assembled, as if he'd grabbed the first flowers he came across, just to avoid arriving empty-handed.

"Sorry," his voice sounds hoarse and genuinely guilty. "I planned to be here five hours ago. I thought I'd have time to arrange everything properly, but the helicopter was delayed in the field."

He comes closer, and you can see how worried he is. John carefully hands you the bouquet.

"I know I'm late, and no excuses will change that," he places his hand on your shoulder, looking into your eyes. "But you're the only reason I even come home. Give me at least half an hour, and I'll prove that for me, the holiday only begins when I see you."

There is so much sincere devotion in his gaze that the resentment goes away.

Price always puts duty first, but you are his only weakness.