I feel like Price would be the type of man to turn his head and kiss the palm of your hand if you were to cup his face.
seen from Lithuania
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Morocco
seen from United States
seen from Austria
seen from India
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from United States
I feel like Price would be the type of man to turn his head and kiss the palm of your hand if you were to cup his face.
Price facefucking reader
yes yes yes it's a sticky wet mess, ugh please kdsjfnt John loves the way your lips stretch around his fat cock and he's gentle when he cups your face and holds your skull as he rams his dick in your throat kdfjb
he loves seeing your spit make a mess in the matted hair of his pubes and when you start tearing up it makes him throb on your tongue! John will coo at you in a raspy tone about how well you're taking him and he'll pull out to smear the spit on your mouth like lipstick then have you suck him back off!!
I feel like he prefers you on your knees, but his favorite place to do it? under his desk.
anytime he thinks about it he starts to chub up and has to think about something else because you make such a mess out of him jkdfb
Whispers of Gunpowder and Lace
Captain John Price x Debutante (Bridgerton AU)
Series Masterlist
As you and John navigate the joyful chaos of raising two little boys, an unexpected third pregnancy lets you quietly wonder together about a daughter.
56. Enough Papa for Everyone
The house was loud now. Not occasionally loud. Not the manageable, charming sort of noise that could be contained behind nursery doors and soothed by closing a window.
It was loud in the bones of the place.
There were toy soldiers beneath the dining table. There were wooden blocks in the garden path. There were muddy little boots lined crookedly by the back door, though no amount of instruction could convince either of your sons that boots belonged on a mat rather than directly in the middle of whatever room they had most recently entered.
There were tiny fingerprints on the lower panes of the drawing-room windows. There were crumbs in places crumbs had no business being. There was a small leather ball in the rosebush. There was a painted wooden horse in the bath.
And there were two little boys who seemed to appear wherever John Price went as though tied to him by invisible string.
Your eldest was old enough now to run. Not gracefully. Not safely. Not in a way that inspired confidence.
He ran with his whole body pitched forward, arms swinging at his sides, curls bouncing as he charged through the halls with the conviction that every destination was urgent and every obstacle was a personal insult.
Your second son had only recently decided that walking was worth the effort. He preferred to be carried. By you, when he wanted comfort. By Anna, when he wanted biscuits. By his grandfather, when he wanted to be indulged. And by John whenever he wanted anything at all.
“Da,” he would say, holding up both hands.
And John, who had once commanded men in battle without hesitation, would give in immediately.
Your eldest had learned this. He had also learned that if he shouted “Papa” from a room away, John would come.
This had created a dangerous amount of confidence.
“Papa,” your eldest called one morning from the far end of the garden.
John looked up from the shed doorway, where he was attempting to repair the hinge on a cabinet that had been opened, slammed, and climbed upon by two small boys in the span of one afternoon.
“Yes, lad?”
“Papa!”
“I am here.”
“Come see!”
John sighed, set down the screwdriver, and rose from his knees.
Your younger son, who had been sitting at John’s feet with a wooden soldier in one hand and a fistful of grass in the other, immediately stood too.
“Da.”
John looked down at him.
“You too?”
Your youngest nodded solemnly.
“Da.”
John held out his hand. The boy took it at once.
You watched from the garden bench, one hand tucked around your tea, as John crossed the lawn with one son clinging to his fingers and the other already shouting about something he had found near the fence.
The sight softened you every time.
Your husband had never been a man made for stillness. He had always needed something to do with his hands, some project to mend, some path to walk, some detail to notice and quietly fix before anyone else realized it had been wrong.
Now he had two boys trailing behind him through the garden and workshop. He had never looked more content.
Not that he would admit it.
“Papa,” your eldest said as John reached him. He pointed down at the grass.
There was a beetle there. A very ordinary beetle.
Your eldest crouched beside it with the solemn awe of a scholar discovering a new continent.
“Bug,” he whispered.
John crouched too.
“Yes,” he said.
“Big bug.”
“It is a very respectable bug.”
Your youngest leaned sideways, still holding John’s hand.
“Bug,” he echoed.
The beetle crawled one inch forward. Both boys gasped.
John looked over at you. His face held that familiar expression. Half amusement. Half surrender. Entirely love.
You smiled into your tea.
The boys had made him softer. Not less himself. Never that.
He was still steady. Still watchful. Still impossible about locked doors, muddy boots, loose stair rails, and whether a child ought to be permitted near the pond without at least one adult close enough to dive in after him.
But fatherhood had brought out something in him that even you had not expected.
He laughed more easily now. He let your sons climb over him like he was a piece of furniture built specifically for them. He had become capable of sitting on the floor for an hour assembling toy soldiers into ranks, only for your youngest to knock them all down with one delighted slap.
He carried them both at once when they were tired. He read bedtime stories with more voices than anyone had anticipated he possessed. He let them fall asleep against him whenever they pleased.
And every night, after the boys had finally been bathed and kissed and settled into their beds, after Anna had put away the laundry and the house had quieted into the kind of exhausted peace only parents understood, John would stand in the nursery doorway for just a moment.
He would look at them.
Your eldest, sprawled in his bed like he had fought a war against blankets and lost.
Your youngest, curled around his stuffed lion, one little hand clutching the edge of his pillow.
Then John would come back to you.
“They are asleep,” he would say quietly.
As if it were news. As if it were a miracle.
And sometimes, you thought it was.
The trouble began one rainy morning. Not dramatic trouble. Not a sudden swoon or a shock that sent the household running.
Only a quiet certainty that arrived while you stood in the kitchen doorway watching your younger son fling bits of toast to the dog beneath the table.
You had been tired for days. Tired in the old familiar way. Not simply from being the mother of two small boys who seemed determined to wake before the sun.
A different tiredness. The kind that settled beneath your skin and made you pause halfway through a task because your body had quietly asked you to sit.
There had been nausea too. You had blamed the soup. Then the tea. Then the fact that your youngest had smeared jam into your hair before breakfast.
But on that morning, when the smell of buttered toast turned your stomach and you had to grip the edge of the counter until the wave passed, something settled heavily in your chest.
Anna looked up from where she was helping the boys with their breakfast. Her eyes met yours.
Neither of you spoke. You did not need to.
Later, after the children had been taken out to the garden with their father, Anna found you in the upstairs sitting room.
You were standing by the window, staring down at John.
He had both boys with him. Your eldest was running in circles around the willow bench, shouting something about being a horse. Your youngest sat on John’s shoulders, his small hands tangled in John’s hair, laughing every time John pretended he could not see where he was going.
They looked happy. Loud. Wild. Entirely yours.
Anna closed the door behind her.
“You have counted?”
You nodded.
“And?”
You looked down at your hands.
“I am late.”
Anna was quiet for a moment. Then she came to stand beside you.
“How late?”
You told her.
Her face softened. Not with surprise. With certainty.
“Oh,” she said.
You let out a shaky breath.
“I cannot be.”
Anna looked at you gently.
“You can.”
You laughed once, almost helplessly. “The second one is barely sleeping through the night.”
“I know.”
“Our eldest still thinks the stairs are a sport.”
“I know.”
“I have two boys underfoot at every hour of the day.”
Anna’s mouth twitched.
“I know.”
You turned toward her.
“Anna.”
She took your hand.
“You have a family that is growing,” she said softly. “Sometimes families do not wait for convenient moments.”
You pressed a hand to your stomach.
You did not know whether you felt joy first. Or fear. Perhaps both. Perhaps they had arrived together.
That evening, you waited until the boys were asleep.
It took longer than usual. Your eldest insisted on a second story. Then a third. Your youngest began crying the moment John tried to leave the room, forcing him to sit in the rocking chair until he drifted off again.
By the time you and John finally reached your own bedchamber, the fire had burned low and the house was deep in shadow.
John was loosening his collar when he looked over and saw your face.
He stopped.
“What is it?”
You sat on the edge of the bed.
“I need to tell you something.”
He crossed the room at once. His expression changed, concern settling into every line of him.
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Is it the boys?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
You reached for his hand. His fingers closed around yours without hesitation.
“I am late,” you said.
He went still. Not the startled stillness of the first time. Not quite. This was slower.
He looked down at your hands. Then at your stomach. Then back at you.
“How late?”
You told him.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he blinked once. Twice. And let out a breath that became a laugh.
Not because it was funny. Because it was impossible.
Because your second son was still waking some nights. Because your eldest had only just begun sleeping in a proper bed without climbing out twice before midnight. Because they had two children already, two boys who filled every room and hour and breath of their lives.
Because another child felt like the world opening wider than either of you had planned.
“Another baby,” John said quietly.
You laughed too, though tears had begun to burn at the corners of your eyes.
“Possibly.”
He sat beside you.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. Then John leaned back against the headboard and covered his face with one hand.
You stared at him.
“John?”
He lowered his hand.
He was smiling. A helpless, disbelieving smile that made him look younger.
“Love,” he said, “we have lost our minds.”
You burst into laughter.
He laughed too.
“The second one only slept through the night twice,” he continued. “Twice. And one of those times was because he had a fever.”
“I know.”
“Our eldest thinks breakfast is optional if he can find a biscuit in the pantry.”
“I know.”
“He has learned how to open the garden gate.”
“I know.”
John looked at you.
“Another baby.”
You nodded.
He reached for you then, pulling you into his lap with a care that made your throat tighten. His arms wrapped around you. His face pressed into your hair.
“You want this?” he whispered.
You did not answer immediately.
You looked toward the door.
Beyond it, two boys slept in rooms down the hall.
Your sons. Your first and second miracles. Your house full of noise and laughter and tiny shoes.
Your body tired, yes. Your heart full, yes. But still able to make room.
“I am frightened,” you admitted. “I do not know how we will manage.”
John’s hand moved slowly over your back.
“We will manage.”
“I know.”
“And?”
You swallowed.
“And I think I want this.”
His arms tightened.
“I do too.”
You turned to look at him.
His eyes were bright. Not because he was unafraid. Not because he did not understand the chaos waiting for you.
Because he did.
And he wanted it anyway.
“We will have three,” he murmured.
“Perhaps.”
“We will.”
You smiled.
Then the room went quiet again. A softer quiet. The kind that made the truth waiting between you impossible to ignore.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“Do you ever wonder?” you asked.
John’s brow creased.
“About what?”
You hesitated. The words felt dangerous in a way they should not.
Not because you loved your sons any less. Not because you would not love another boy with every part of yourself.
But because there was a small, private place in you that had begun to imagine something else.
A daughter.
A little girl in the garden.
A child with ribbons in her hair and John’s eyes, perhaps.
You looked back at John.
“If it is a girl.”
He grew very quiet.
You felt his hand tighten around yours.
“I have thought about it,” he admitted.
Your eyes stung.
“I do not want to hope too hard.”
“No,” he said softly. “Neither do I.”
You looked down.
“I would feel guilty.”
“You should not.”
“I have two beautiful boys. I am happy. I am grateful. I do not want them to ever think I wished for something different.”
John touched your chin and tipped your face toward his.
“Wanting a daughter does not mean you love your sons less.”
Your throat tightened.
“I know.”
“And if it is another boy,” he said, “we will love him exactly the way we love the others.”
“Yes.”
“If it is a girl,” he continued, his voice changing, turning softer, “we will love her exactly the same.”
You smiled faintly.
He rested his forehead against yours.
“We do not have to make a wish into a burden,” he whispered. “We can wonder. That is all.”
You closed your eyes.
“We can wonder.”
John kissed you then. Slow. Tender.
Not a promise of what the baby would be.
Only a promise that whatever came, it would be welcomed.
The doctor confirmed your pregnancy two mornings later.
Anna cried.
Your mother cried too, though she insisted it was because she had been cutting onions earlier in the kitchen, which no one believed because there were no onions within ten feet of her.
Your father sat down heavily in his chair.
“Three?” he said.
You smiled.
“Three.”
He looked toward John. Then toward the garden, where your sons were chasing one another around the fountain while Mr. Price pretended he was not encouraging them.
“God help us,” your father said.
Mr. Price slapped the arm of his chair.
“Three grandsons,” he declared.
“We do not know that,” you reminded him.
“Three grandchildren, then,” he corrected. “Still excellent.”
Your eldest had been told about the baby in the simplest terms possible.
Mama had a baby in her belly. The baby would come later. The baby would be small. The baby would not take his horse.
This last point seemed most important.
“Baby no take horse?” he asked seriously.
“No,” you assured him.
“Baby no take lion?”
“No.”
“Baby no take Papa?”
John looked up from where he sat on the floor with your youngest.
The question seemed to catch him somewhere deep.
He opened his arms.
Your eldest ran into them.
John held him close.
“No one takes Papa from you,” he said quietly. “There is enough Papa for everyone.”
Your eldest looked up at him.
“Enough?”
“Enough.”
That seemed to settle it.
For the moment.
The pregnancy moved forward quickly. Not in the way time truly moves. The months were still long. Your body still changed. There were still mornings of sickness, afternoons of exhaustion, nights where the baby moved beneath your ribs with enough force to make you gasp.
But the days were crowded. Your sons made sure of it.
Your eldest began following John into the workshop whenever he could escape the nursery.
Your younger son followed your eldest.
By the end of a week, John had two small shadows behind him every time he crossed the garden.
One day, you found all three of them in the shed.
John sat at the workbench, attempting to sand the edge of a small wooden stool. Your eldest sat beside him on an overturned crate, wearing a pair of John’s old gloves that fell halfway to his elbows.
Your youngest sat on the floor with a wooden spoon, tapping it against a bucket with great satisfaction.
“Papa make,” your eldest said.
“Yes,” John replied.
“Papa fix.”
“Yes.”
“Papa make baby bed?”
John looked at you.
You stood in the doorway, one hand resting over the gentle curve of your stomach.
“I did make your bed,” John said.
“Baby bed?”
“Yes.”
“Mine?”
“No,” John said, smiling. “The baby has its own.”
Your eldest considered this. Then he pointed to the pile of wood.
“Mine too.”
John sighed.
“Of course.”
You laughed.
He gave you a look.
“This is your fault.”
“They are your sons.”
“Exactly.”
The first time you felt the baby move, you were sitting in the garden with both boys.
Your eldest had fallen asleep with his head in your lap after an hour of chasing butterflies. Your younger son sat beside you in the grass, trying to put a flower into the mouth of the wooden lion Soap had given him.
John was nearby, repairing a loose section of fence.
The baby fluttered beneath your hand.
You froze.
Then it happened again.
A soft, unmistakable movement.
You looked toward John.
“John.”
He looked up at once.
“What is it?”
“It moved.”
He dropped the hammer. Not dramatically. Not on purpose. It simply slipped from his hand and landed in the grass.
Your sons both startled.
Your eldest blinked awake.
John crossed the lawn in three long strides and knelt before you.
“You are sure?”
You took his hand and pressed it to your stomach.
“There.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the baby moved again.
John inhaled sharply.
Your eldest watched him.
“Baby kick?”
John looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Baby kick Mama?”
“Yes.”
Your eldest frowned.
“Bad baby?”
You laughed.
“No, sweetheart. The baby is saying hello.”
Your youngest crawled closer and pressed his palm against your stomach.
“Baby?”
“Yes,” you whispered.
John looked at all of you.
At your two boys in the grass. At your hand over his. At the child still hidden beneath your heart.
His eyes shone.
For a moment, he could not speak.
Then he bent and kissed your stomach gently.
“Hello,” he whispered.
Your eldest copied him. A loud, sloppy kiss pressed against your gown.
“Hi baby.”
Your youngest followed with an enthusiastic pat.
“Baby.”
You laughed through tears.
John looked up at you.
“Three,” he said softly.
You nodded.
“Three.”
The birth came during a cold winter rain.
The whole house seemed wrapped in shadow and candlelight. Your boys had been taken to your parents’ estate before the labor properly began, because your mother had insisted that two small children did not need to witness their mother trying to bring a third into the world.
Your eldest had cried when he left.
“Want Mama.”
“I know,” you told him, kneeling carefully before him. “I will see you soon.”
“Baby come?”
“Yes.”
“Baby boy?”
You paused.
“Maybe.”
“Baby girl?”
“Maybe.”
He thought about that.
Then placed a kiss on your stomach.
“Hi baby.”
Your younger son did the same, though mostly because his brother had.
Then they were gone.
The house felt too quiet without them.
John stayed by your side.
This labor was not as long as the first. Not as uncertain.
But it hurt in new ways.
Perhaps because your body remembered.
Perhaps because you did too.
There were moments when you laughed bitterly at the thought that you had ever believed birth would become easier simply because you had done it before.
John did not laugh.
He only held your hand. Brought you water. Pressed cool cloths to your forehead. Told you again and again that you were doing it.
At one point, in the long stretch before dawn, you clutched his shirt and said through clenched teeth, “I do not think I can do this again.”
John’s face went pale.
“You do not have to.”
“I mean now.”
His expression softened at once.
“Yes, you can,” he whispered. “You are doing it.”
“I am tired.”
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I do not mean it.”
“I know.”
“I may mean it later.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“You can tell me later.”
The midwife gave instructions. Your mother held one hand. John held the other.
And when the final moment came, when you felt as though every part of you had been pulled apart and remade, John’s forehead pressed against yours.
“Come on, love,” he whispered. “Bring them home.”
You gave one final push.
Then there was silence.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then a cry.
A sharp, furious, perfect cry.
The midwife smiled.
“It is a boy.”
For a second, you only stared.
Not because you were disappointed.
Never that.
Because the word landed in a place already prepared for it.
A boy.
Another son.
Another little life.
John made a sound beside you that was half laugh, half breathless disbelief.
The baby was placed against your chest.
He was warm and furious and beautiful. His hair was darker than your second son’s had been. His face was red from protesting his arrival. His little fists opened and closed against you with fierce determination.
You looked down at him.
Your third son.
Your heart opened wider than you thought it could.
John stood beside the bed, tears already bright in his eyes.
He looked at the baby. Then at you. Then back at the baby.
And laughed helplessly.
“Another one of me,” he whispered. “God help you.”
You laughed through your tears.
“God help us all.”
John bent to kiss your forehead. Then the baby’s hair. Then he took him carefully when the midwife offered.
For a moment, he stood there holding your newest son against his chest.
He looked tired. Overwhelmed. Happy.
There was no disappointment in his face.
Only awe.
Only love.
Only the stunned realization that life had given him more than he ever dared ask for.
“Our boys,” he said softly.
You looked at him.
“Our boys.”
He came back to the bed and sat beside you.
The rain tapped gently at the window. The fire burned low. The cradle waited nearby.
John held your third son between you, and you rested your hand over the baby’s back.
“So,” he murmured, looking at the tiny face beneath the blanket. “We have three.”
“We do.”
“You know what this means.”
You smiled tiredly.
“What?”
“The house will never be quiet again.”
“It was never quiet.”
“No,” he admitted. “But now it will be louder.”
You looked at your baby. Then toward the door, imagining the moment your other sons would return.
Two little shadows.
Soon to become three.
You knew there would be jealousy. There would be mess. There would be nights when all three boys cried at once and John stood in the middle of the hallway looking as if he had been handed an impossible mission.
There would be muddy boots and broken toys and arguments over who sat beside Papa at supper.
There would be moments of exhaustion so sharp you might cry over toast again.
But there would be this too.
Three boys.
Three sons.
Three small hearts that had made room for themselves inside yours.
John looked down at the newborn in his arms.
Then back at you.
“You all right, love?”
You smiled.
“Yes.”
And you meant it.
There was a tiny ache somewhere inside you. The soft, private wondering of what it might have been like to hold a daughter.
But it did not take anything from this.
It did not make your joy smaller.
Your son shifted against you.
John’s hand came over yours.
The rain fell softly outside.
And in the quiet before the house filled again, you let yourself hold both truths at once.
You had wondered.
And you had been blessed.
Your family was loud.
Your home was full.
Your heart had made room again.
And there was no part of you that wished it otherwise.
🌹✨🕯️🌙✨🌹✨🕯️🌙✨🌹✨🕯️🌙✨
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Thanks to sleep deprivation you were surprisingly unembarrassed as you trudged to your neighbours door wearing pyjamas and holding a teddy bear.
The knocking woke John up easily, being military trained does that to a person, but it didn’t mean he was happy as he dragged his feet through the apartment and opened the door.
He was slightly more alert at the sight of you gazing up at him, eyes red and looking exhausted. “Can I sleep over?”
Most people would probably ask for a reason if their neighbour randomly invited themself round at 1:30am but he simply stepped aside and opened the door wider. “What’s the matter?”
You flop down on his couch, he raises his brows but doesn’t stop you, yet again you seem too tired to consider social etiquette. “Spider..”
That has a smirk pulling at his mouth, watching you nestle in and curl up. “Spider?”
A hum-grunt hybrid leaves you, barely reaching his ears where you’re muffled against the cushions.
He’s still smirking, even more amused now, as you fall asleep before responding properly.
While you did technically barge in uninvited he’s still a gentleman, hence the fact he carries you (and your teddy) to his bed and sleeps on the far too small couch himself.
For those who commented wanting to hear more of this Price/wanting to be tagged:
@im-not-a-pleeb @sgt-nharper @hinaspage
I'm Just Next Door
Captain John Price x WifeReader
Series Masterlist
When the world brands John a wanted murderer on live television, the public scandal shatters your family.
84. Breaking News
The television was on because you could not stand the silence anymore.
Not because you wanted noise. Not because you were looking for answers there. You had been pacing the living room since seven, your phone in one hand, the volume low enough not to frighten the girls and loud enough that you could hear if anything broke. Anything at all.
Kate had said she was coming.
Tomorrow morning, she'd said.
But morning had turned into a long, gray stretch of waiting, and your whole body had started to feel wrong inside itself. Too hot, too cold, too alert. You had made coffee and forgotten to drink it. Started the dishwasher and not remembered loading it. Checked your phone so many times your hand now reached for it without permission.
Peach sat on the floor with her coloring book open and untouched.
Margot was in one of those moods where she wanted to be held and didn't want to be held and could not explain either, which meant she'd alternated between whining at your knees and trying to throw blocks at Slinky for the better part of an hour. Slinky, sensing the room had gone bad in a way even he couldn't nap through, had taken up position under the armchair and was watching all of you with his yellow eyes half-open.
You had told yourself over and over that there had to be an explanation.
Emergency call-in.
Operational secrecy.
Some level of classified bullshit too stupid and too important to explain over the phone.
That had to be it.
Because the other thing, the thing moving around the edges of your panic in a shape you refused to look at directly, was impossible.
Your phone buzzed.
You snatched it up so fast you nearly dropped it.
Not John.
Your stomach dropped hard enough to make you sit down.
A message from Clare.
Turn the TV off.
You stared at the words.
Then the television voice changed.
The anchor's tone sharpened in that particular way newsreaders got when they knew they had something rotten enough to spike ratings for days. You looked up slowly.
The banner at the bottom of the screen changed first.
BREAKING NEWS
Then the photo.
John.
Not one you had taken. Not one where he looked human. A formal military photograph, hard angles and flat lighting and rank visible on the shoulders. Controlled. Reduced. Empty.
Your whole body went cold.
The anchor was still speaking, but for one second you heard nothing at all.
Then the words punched through.
"SAS Captain Johnathan Michael Price is being sought in connection with the murder of United States General Shepherd..."
You stood too fast. The phone slipped from your hand and hit the rug. The room tilted. Actually tilted. You caught the edge of the side table hard enough to bruise your palm and kept staring at the screen because if you looked away, it might become more real. Not less.
The headline shifted.
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN GENERAL'S DEATH
Then, seconds later, lower on the screen:
SOURCES SAY BRITISH SPECIAL FORCES OFFICER MAY BE ARMED
Your mouth opened.
No sound came out.
On the television, talking heads started doing what they did best. A former intelligence analyst with perfect hair saying words like rogue element and operational fracture. A retired colonel making grave noises about chain of command and international coordination. Social media clips already blooming on the side screen, his face cut into little boxes beside hashtags and speculation and the rotten delight of strangers being handed someone else's life to feed on.
One clip used your wedding photo.
Not even his military one.
Your wedding.
You in white. Him looking wrecked and in love and alive under the arch in your own garden.
They blurred your face badly. Not enough. The girls weren't in frame, thank God, but the picture still made your skin crawl because it was yours and it was there now, dragged under the bright ugly surface of public consumption.
You physically could not process it.
Your mind kept hitting the same wall and sliding off.
John.
Murder.
Wanted.
A General of the USA.
No.
No. No. No.
"Mommy?"
Peach's voice cut through it thin and scared.
You turned your head.
She was standing now, not near the television but facing it, one hand still holding a crayon she'd forgotten she had. Her eyes were too wide. Too fixed.
On the screen, they said his name again.
Then "Daddy" came out of Peach's mouth in a whisper so small you almost missed it.
Your heart broke in real time.
She looked at the television.
At his face.
At the word below it.
Then back at you.
"What are they saying?"
You crossed the room in two strides and turned the volume down further, but not off. Couldn't make yourself cut it entirely. As if some part of you still believed you were about to hear the correction. The explanation. The line where someone laughed and said no, no, not him, there's been some mistake.
It didn't come.
Margot started crying.
Not because she understood. Because the whole room had changed shape and she was old enough now to know when the air around adults went wrong. She stood by the coffee table with her arms up, angry tears already spilling, yelling for no reason she could name.
You picked her up automatically.
She twisted in your arms, upset by your heartbeat, by your breathing, by the fact that even held she did not feel held enough.
Peach was still staring at the television.
You moved in front of it without thinking. Blocking the screen with your body. Margot kicking against your hip. Your own pulse hammering so hard it made your vision blur.
"Come here," you said to Peach.
She didn't.
"Peach."
She blinked at you then, finally, as if surfacing from underwater. "That's Daddy."
"Yes."
Her little face folded in confusion. "But... why are they saying that?"
You had no answer. None. Nothing even close to one that a six-year-old could hold.
Your throat worked once before any sound came out. "I don't know yet."
That was when Peach started to cry.
Not loud.
Not immediately.
Just that quiet, wrecked kind first, tears spilling before the noise caught up, and then the noise did catch up, and suddenly you had one daughter sobbing and one screaming and the television still muttering in the background about your husband like he belonged to them now.
You got to the floor because your legs would not cooperate for anything else.
Peach practically fell into you. Margot fought your hold for three furious seconds, then clung so hard her little fingers hurt.
You sat there on the rug with both girls in your lap and the news still playing behind your shoulder and felt your own fear turn to something more humiliating than terror.
Exposure.
This wasn't private anymore.
This wasn't your husband missing and your phone unanswered and one terrible conversation waiting in your kitchen.
This was public ruin.
John's face on every screen in the country.
John's name under headlines and strangers' mouths and social media rot and men in suits who would never know him saying his life aloud like they were reading weather.
Peach buried her face in your shoulder. "Mommy, make it stop."
You reached blindly for the remote on the cushion behind you.
Your hand shook so badly it took two tries to hit mute.
The picture stayed.
His face stayed.
That was somehow worse.
You could still see the ticker moving under him. Words you could not make yourself read in full.
Margot, red-faced and furious, shoved against your chest and yelled again. Not words. Just need. Just the tiny body version of something is wrong and I hate it and I do not know where to put it.
You closed your eyes.
The knock at the door came while the television was still muted and glowing.
For one split second your heart did something stupid and wild and unforgivable.
John.
Then your brain caught up.
Kate.
You didn't move right away.
Neither did Peach.
Margot had gone hiccupy with crying, all little angry gasps into your neck.
The knock came again. Firmer this time.
You looked at the door.
Then at the television, where your husband's face still filled the center of the room like an accusation or a ghost or some cruel joke played by a world that had finally decided to stop being polite.
Then back to the door.
And somehow, even before you stood, even before you wiped your face and shifted both girls and braced yourself to open it, you knew this was the moment the fear changed shape.
Because now someone was here to tell you the part that humiliation had not yet said aloud.
Kate Laswell looked exactly the same as she always did.
That was the first thing you hated.
Not because she should have come in disheveled or ashamed or visibly burdened enough to match the wreckage she was walking into. But because something in you had wanted the outside of her to reflect the inside of your house. And it didn't.
She was composed. Dark coat. Hair pulled back. Face set into that careful, measured expression people in her line of work wore when every word had to survive contact.
You wanted to slam the door in her face.
Instead, you stepped back and let her in because Peach was still standing in the hall behind you and Margot had reattached herself to your leg like a tiny panicked weight and the television in the living room was still lit with muted disaster.
Kate stepped inside, took one look at the screen, and then at you.
"Girls," she said quietly.
The way she said it made you want to break something.
Not because she was cold.
Because she sounded sorry.
Your mom had taught you enough manners that even now, even with your heart trying to kick its way out of your chest, some mechanical part of you said, "Peach, take your sister into the kitchen."
Peach looked from you to Kate to the television and back again.
"But—"
"Please."
Your voice must have done something strange because she obeyed immediately. Took Margot's hand. Led her away with the serious, trembling determination of a child trying to hold up more than she should.
The second they were gone, you turned back to Kate.
The words came out before you fully decided to speak.
"What did he do?"
Kate did not look away.
You stepped toward her. "No. Don't do the slow careful version. Don't you dare walk in here after that and start rationing me."
Her eyes flicked once toward the kitchen. "Keep your voice down."
The sheer nerve of that almost made you laugh.
Instead, you exploded.
"What did he do?" you demanded, louder anyway. "Why is his face on my television? Why are they saying he murdered a general? Why did he leave my house while I was taking my children to the park and vanish like some kind of criminal? And why, Kate, did you know enough to tell me you were coming before any of this broke?"
She took it.
That was somehow worse too.
No flinch. No interruption. No correction. She just stood there and let you throw every sharp edge of your panic at her until your throat burned and your hands were shaking hard enough you had to clench them into fists.
When you stopped, only because your body physically needed air, she said quietly, "Can we sit down?"
"No."
"Then I'll stand."
You almost hated her for that steadiness. For bringing no dramatics into your wreckage. For forcing you to be the only person in the room losing your composure.
You crossed your arms so tightly they hurt.
Kate looked at you for a long moment and then said, "What I can tell you is this. John left by choice."
The words hit harder than the headline had.
Your face changed before you could stop it.
No, no, no. There had to be some caveat. Operational pressure. Forced movement. A thing he had to do that looked like choice from far away.
But Kate did not offer one.
"He left by choice," she repeated, and there was not a scrap of softness in the sentence now. Not because she wanted to wound you. Because she knew a lie here would do worse later.
Your mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The first real feeling beneath the fear cracked open then, and it was not anger.
Abandonment.
Raw, ugly, immediate.
You laughed once, a broken little sound. "He left me."
Kate didn't answer.
Because yes.
"He left the girls."
Still no answer.
The kitchen behind you had gone too quiet. Peach was listening. You knew she was. Margot too, in the way babies listened, all feeling and no language.
You stepped past Kate and turned the television off. The room plunged into a silence so hard it rang.
Then you turned back on her.
"Why?"
Her jaw shifted.
That was the first sign of strain you'd seen in her.
"I can't give you the whole picture."
You made a disbelieving sound. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"I'm not."
"Then give me the part that belongs to me."
Kate took off her coat slowly and laid it over the back of the chair. Buying time. Choosing words. You hated her for that too because every second she thought was a second you spent knowing less about your own life than strangers with microphones.
Finally she said, "John found out something about Shepherd. Enough to make this personal."
The room narrowed.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means John believed Shepherd crossed a line that couldn't be left standing."
You stared at her.
No. No.
That was not a real answer. That was a briefing answer. A report answer. Something shaved down and polished until it could pass through legal filters and still sound almost human.
You shook your head once. "That's not enough."
"I know."
"No, you don't," you snapped. "You don't get to stand in my house and tell me my husband blew up our lives because something was 'personal.'"
Kate's eyes sharpened. "You think I don't understand what this costs?"
"I think you understand what it costs him."
That landed.
Good.
For one second, silence pressed down on both of you hard enough to feel physical.
Then Kate said, very quietly, "John made this decision himself."
There it was. The line she had come to deliver. Not in all caps on a television screen. Not from a stranger.
From her.
No coercion. No misunderstanding. No momentary disappearance that would resolve when the right authority made the right call.
He chose it.
You sat down because suddenly your legs were no longer interested in pretending otherwise.
The kitchen chair felt too hard. Too upright. Too real under you.
Kate stayed standing.
Of course she did.
You laughed once again, softer this time and more dangerous. "He told me he'd never leave, and he lied."
Her expression didn't change, but something in it went older. Sadder. "Yes."
You looked up at her so fast your chair creaked.
"You knew?"
"I knew enough to be worried."
"And you let him come home."
That one made her inhale.
Because yes. She had.
Her answer came measured. "He was going to come home no matter what I said."
"That's not the point."
"No," Kate said. "It isn't."
The fury had gone out of you somewhere between one heartbeat and the next. In its place was something colder. More exhausted. A grief too early and too raw to stand upright yet.
You rubbed your palm against your thigh because if you did not keep some part of your body moving you might shatter in place.
"What happens now?"
Kate finally sat down across from you.
And because she did that, because she made herself eye level now instead of speaking down to you from her posture and her coat and her trained calm, you understood something you had not wanted to.
She really did not have enough to give you.
Not enough to make this smaller.
Not enough to make this survivable by information alone.
"I'll help where I can," she said. "If there are press problems, if your address leaks, if you need security pushed through quietly, I can work angles."
You looked at her.
"Can you tell me when he's coming back?"
"No."
"Can you tell me if he's safe?"
"No."
"Can you tell me if he'll contact me?"
A pause.
"No."
There it was.
Nothing.
Not timeline. Not safety. Not contact.
Only this woman in your kitchen with your whole life in pieces between you saying she would help where she could, as if where she could had not already arrived too late.
For the first time since the headline, the humiliation fully gave way to something else.
Not fear.
Not yet rage.
Abandonment.
You had been scared all morning.
Now you felt left.
Left with the children. Left with the television. Left with the empty house and the questions and the polite silences and a husband-shaped wound no one was willing to call by its right name.
"He didn't trust me," you said.
Kate did not interrupt.
You looked past her to the kitchen doorway where Peach was standing now after all, one hand tight around Margot's, both girls staring in with frightened wide eyes.
You swallowed hard enough to hurt. "He didn't trust me enough to tell me."
Kate followed your gaze. Something in her face softened by half an inch.
"I think," she said carefully, "that John believed not telling you was the only way to keep you and the girls out of it."
You almost laughed.
Not because it was funny. Because it was tragic in the stupidest possible way.
"He dragged us into it anyway."
Kate had no answer for that.
Neither did you.
From the doorway, Peach said in a tiny voice, "Mommy?"
You stood immediately.
The chair scraped hard against the floor. Margot startled. Peach didn't move.
You crossed to them and dropped to your knees, gathering them in before either of them could say anything else. Peach came first, all trembling little shoulders and hot cheeks. Margot after, climbing over both of you because panic in the room was all the permission she needed to stop pretending to be brave.
You held them and pressed your face into Peach's hair.
Over their heads, you saw Anne in the open front doorway.
Then Clare behind her.
You hadn't heard the knock.
Maybe Kate had let them in. Maybe the door had been unlocked the whole time. Maybe your life had already become the sort of place people entered carefully.
Anne crossed the room without a word and crouched beside you, one hand on your shoulder and one on Peach's back. Clare came straight to Margot and stroked her little curls off her damp forehead.
No speeches.
No neat comfort.
Just women closing ranks around you in your own house because there was nothing else left to do first.
Kate stood in your kitchen while your family folded in around your children and looked, for the first time, like someone who wished deeply she had brought better news.
But she hadn't.
Because there wasn't any.
And sitting there with Anne's hand warm and steady on you, Clare murmuring nonsense to keep Margot from crying harder, Peach shaking in your lap, you understood the thing you had not wanted to know yet.
This was the first moment you did not just feel scared.
You felt abandoned.
And because that feeling had finally arrived, you knew nothing after this would fit back together the way it had before.
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Captain John Price’s meal deal.
The most basic meal deal it's almost psychotic.
Ghost got Price a coke and a water with his meal deal once instead of coconut water, Price never forgave him.
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