John

Your relationship with Ghost had always been strained: his coldness and harsh remarks drove you to the brink of anger. The final straw was his latest rudeness. In retaliation, you snuck up on him and painted his stern mask with pink flowers and hearts.
When his roar echoed throughout the base, you already knew where to run. Price's office was your "safe zone."
John wasn't even surprised when you burst into his room, out of breath from running. He merely raised an eyebrow at your pink-painted fingers. As always, not a single reproach—just a barely perceptible, patronizing smirk.
"Are you at it again?" he whispered hoarsely, hearing Ghost's heavy boots literally driving the concrete into the hallway floor. "My little one, there's only one choice... under the table. Now."
You dove into the cramped space, pressing yourself against the captain's knees. A second later, the door nearly flew off its hinges. An enraged Simon stood in the doorway, clutching that very mask. The sight of the elite fighter with pink scribbles on his face would have been comical if he didn't look like he was ready to challenge the entire base to a duel.
"John, tell her you have that girl," Ghost hissed, barely holding back. "I'll teach her a lesson once and for all."
Price calmly leaned back in his chair, shielding you from any casual glance.
"You know, Simon, she rarely comes to see me," he lied without even blinking. "And anyway, maybe this color suits you? It lightens the mood."
While Ghost was cursing and ranting about discipline, John's hand dropped. His broad palm rested on your head. As he calmly ushered the lieutenant out of the office, his fingers slowly and gently ran through your hair, soothing your trembling. When the door finally slammed shut, silence reigned. John's hand lingered for a moment, gently stroking the back of your head.
"He's gone," he said quietly, and you felt him vibrate with suppressed laughter. "Get out, artist. But next time, choose washable paint, or I'll have to register you in this office."