22. you and i

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some months later

You'd woken up to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a breakfast tray unsteadily balanced on the mattress next to you. John, wearing that grin that always made your heart melt, was leaning over you. "Happy birthday, love," he whispered, his face only a few inches away from yours as he leaned in and kissed you, his lips lingering on yours for a heartbeat too long, refusing to let go.

You knew then – he'd have bad news. Something was off.

"I'll have to leave for work later, I'm so sorry." He apologized profusely, having to leave on your birthday of all days, and you felt the shift in his mood. You reached for his hand, lacing for fingers through his, and repeatedly told him it was fine.

"You already gave me the best present." And you meant it. Having him there, in that quiet morning light, sharing coffee and stolen kisses - it was more than you could ever ask for.

The rain had finally stopped halfway through the day. As the sun streamed through the windows, painting the kitchen a warm gold, you decided to take Nora for her walk. But when you reached for her leash in the hallway closet, your stomach sank. It was gone - probably left in the car John had taken. You mentally cursed yourself, knowing you couldn't take her out without it. She was too full of energy, too eager to chase squirrels, and regardless, the suburban streets weren't exactly a safe place for a dog as happy to go on an adventure as her.

You remembered there were spare leashes in the garage, tucked away in a box of "emergency supplies" John kept stocked, just in case. But when you reached the garage, the door was locked. Damn it. John had taken the keys with him.

Nora whined, sensing your growing frustration. You knelt and buried your hands in her soft fur. "I'm sorry, girl," you muttered, scratching behind her ears, "nothing seems to go our way today."

You knew John kept a spare set of keys in his office - the one Simon had used for months while he'd been working on that motorcycle. You headed inside, hoping those spare keys were still there.

The familiar scent of him hit your nostrils. It was just something so comforting about it, the faint aroma of cigars lingering. The room held his presence even if he wasn't there.

You started searching his desk. The top drawer held neatly organized files and pens. The second drawer, more files, and a box of his favourite cigars. You found the spare keys, labelled in Simon's handwriting, tucked away in the third drawer. But something else caught your eye – a small wooden box, nestled in the furthest corner, half-hidden beneath a stack of papers.

Curiosity piqued, you pulled the box out and slowly opened it. It was lined in red velvet. You recognized it instantly – it was the box that held John's medal, the one awarded to him for leading the team that took down Makarov.

You remembered the night, where you were all dressed up fancy, like you hadn't since years ago. It was foreign, a world away from combat gear. You'd watched, your heart swelling with pride, as John accepted the prize.

You knew he wasn't fond of it. He kept mentioning it that night.

"We did it together, Ava," he'd said, his gaze intense, his fingers tightening around yours. "They all deserve this. Not just me."

You'd argued, tried to convince him that it was his leadership, his strength, that had brought them through. But he'd just shaken his head, tucking the medal back into the velvet case as though it were a burden, not an honour.

You'd never seen him open that box again.

Now, as you ran your fingers over the cool metal, you felt a pang of sadness. He'd hidden it away, this symbol of their victory, as though he was ashamed and unwilling to claim the credit he deserved.

keep me breathing - john price x ocWhere stories live. Discover now