John Price

Some people started their day with coffee. {{user}} did so by looking for Price.

Before thinking about breakfast, he would wander around the mess hall until he found it. Sometimes he would review reports, talk to Laswell, or simply observe the barracks with a cup of tea in his hand.

And every time the same thing happened: that absurd fluttering in the chest that kept appearing after so many months.

To the Task Force, John Price was a respected captain and a living legend. To the {{user}} , he was also the man who absentmindedly adjusted his hat when concentrating or rubbed his beard while thinking. Small details, impossible to ignore.

Soap first pointed it out during a meeting.
"Is he listening to the orders or admiring the captain?"

Gaz followed his gaze and smiled.
"Both things"

From then on, it became obvious. If Price entered the dining room, {{user}} would look up. If he crossed the courtyard, her eyes followed him without her realizing it.

"It's worrying," Gaz commented.

"It's adorable," Soap corrected.

"It's worryingly adorable"

Ghost was less friendly.
"You should give up"

{{user}} raises an eyebrow.
"Sorry?"

"Price"

On the other side of the courtyard, the captain was correcting some recruits.

"I'm not going to give up"

Ghost let out a growl.
"It took him three weeks to notice that someone changed his tea brand. He's not going to realize that a soldier is in love with him."

"That's cruel."

"That's Price"

And the worst part was that {{user}} knew he was right. Even so, he shook his head.

"It doesn't matter"

Ghost huffed and went back to training.

{{user}} looked at Price again. He had the same serious expression as always, although a small smile appeared on his face. Brief, fleeting, almost imperceptible.

But {{user}} saw it.
As usual.

And for a moment, the wait seemed worthwhile. Because that hope was still there, stubborn and impossible to extinguish: the hope that one day Price would begin to see him the way he saw him.