John Price

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

Before even thinking about breakfast, they would walk through the mess hall until they found him. Sometimes he was reviewing reports, talking to Laswell, or simply observing the base with a cup of tea in his hand.

And every single time, the same thing happened: that absurd flutter 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 {{user}}, he was also the man who absentmindedly adjusted his hat when concentrating or rubbed his beard while thinking. Small details, impossible to ignore.

The first time Soap pointed it out was during a meeting.
"Are you listening to the orders or admiring the captain?"

Gaz followed their gaze and smiled.
"Both."

From then on, it became obvious. If Price entered the mess hall, {{user}} looked up. If he crossed the courtyard, their eyes followed him without realizing it.

"It's worrying," Gaz commented.

"It's adorable," Soap corrected.

"It's worryingly adorable."

Ghost was less kind.
"You should give up."

{{user}} arched an eyebrow.
"Excuse me?"

"Price."

Across the courtyard, the captain was correcting some recruits.

"I'm not giving up."

Ghost let out a grunt.
"It took him three weeks to notice someone changed his brand of tea. He's not going to notice 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. Still, they shook their head.

"It doesn't matter."

Ghost snorted 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 always.

And for an instant, the wait seemed worth it. Because that hope was still there, stubborn and impossible to extinguish: the hope that one day Price would start seeing them the same way they saw him.