When you find a polaroid tucked away in Price's bucket hat. ✨
It's been months since you got proper rest, a second of shut eye felt like a fantasy with the gaggle of a thousand two children under the age of four and it was all Price's fault.
Price and his stupidly delicious cock.
Now, you were currently in the laundry room shifting through the clothes into colours and whites with a huff because it seemed like there was no responsible adult in your house able to do the washing letting a mountain of clothes piling up in the corner.
It didn't help that John's sweaty piles were scattered everywhere; sometimes you wondered how this man could be so disciplined at work but a complete pig at home.
You pinch the bridge of your nose, staring at the damp, crumpled heap of his shirts like they personally offended you. Mud-stained cuffs. Sweat-dark collars. One sock. Just the one. As if the other had simply evaporated in the field like it always did.
The bucket hat appears when you dig deeper into the pile, its worn olive fabric unmistakable. You pause.
The same one he refuses to throw away despite the frayed brim and the faint smell of engine grease that no detergent has ever fully conquered. You shake your head, half fond, half exasperated.
“Of course this ended up in the laundry,” you sigh.
You’re about to toss it in with the darks when something stiff rustles inside the lining. Frowning, you reach in. Your fingers brush glossy paper. A polaroid slides free. For a moment you just stare at it, brain foggy with exhaustion.
A photo that you had sent him years ago, with the momentous piles of letters that would get shipped to him every month. But this one was different.
If was a photo of you, on the bed, legs spread wide to show the mess you made in between your thighs, clit puffy and abused.
Footsteps sound behind you, heavy and familiar, and Price fills the doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from a rushed shower. The moment he looks at you, something in your expression must give you away, because his attention sharpens immediately. You don’t say anything, just hold the polaroid up between your fingers.
He steps closer, leaning in to get a better look.
Not dramatic, not loud, just a quiet pause. A flicker of recognition. Of being caught.
His hand drags over the back of his neck, the gesture almost sheepish, so unlike the composed, unshakeable captain he usually is. There’s a brief attempt at nonchalance, but it doesn’t quite land. The truth is already there between you, glossy and undeniable.
A short, disbelieving laugh slips out of you as your gaze drops back to the photo. The absurdity of it, the fact that this had been tucked away in his bucket hat, feels almost ridiculous. And yet, there it is. Intimate. Bold. A snapshot of something that was never meant to be casual.
You shake your head faintly, still staring at it, taking in the details again despite yourself. The way you’re leaning into him. The way his hands hold you, not just with heat but with something steadier. Grounding. Certain. And the way he’s looking at you like the rest of the world had simply stopped existing.
Behind you, he lets out a quiet breath, something close to a suppressed chuckle, and steps closer until his warmth settles at your back. It’s familiar, instinctive, his presence fitting into yours like it always does.
Your thumb brushes over the edge of the polaroid, slower this time, more thoughtful. The embarrassment is still there, but it’s softened by something else now, something heavier.
There’s writing on the back, John's handwriting; rough and simple.
Your chest tightens, just slightly, but enough to notice. For a moment, the noise of the house fades into the background, the distant thud of small feet upstairs, the faint chaos of toys being thrown and voices calling out. It all feels muted compared to the quiet weight of what you’re holding.
You glance back at him over your shoulder. There’s no teasing in his expression now, no deflection, just something steady and honest that sits deep and unguarded. It tells you everything. When you look back at the polaroid, you don’t hesitate this time. You slip it into your pocket, pressing it flat against you like it belongs there.
Behind you, Price shifts slightly, one eyebrow lifting in silent question, but there’s a knowing edge to it. Your lips twitch, just faintly. There’s still embarrassment, still disbelief, but it’s tangled now with something warmer, something quieter, something that lingers.
His hands settle on your hips a moment later, grounding and familiar, and the warmth of him presses in close again. There’s a low murmur near your ear, something teasing threaded through it, hinting at future trouble more than anything immediate.
You nudge him back lightly, more out of habit than resistance.
Upstairs, the sudden crash of something hitting the floor shatters the moment, followed by a loud, indignant wail.
With a long, tired sigh, you turn toward the door, already moving to deal with the chaos waiting upstairs. Behind you, Price follows easily, unhurried, like he knows exactly how this will go.
As you walk, your hand briefly brushes your pocket, where the polaroid rests, hidden now, but not forgotten.
And despite everything, the exhaustion, the noise, the mess, you can still feel the quiet weight of it there.
