You return from your next assignment, exhausted and silent. All you want to do is fall into bed and drift off to sleep, but when you open the door to your room, you stop. John Price is sitting at the table, leaning over your diary. Flipping through the pages, his gaze frowning or frozen, his fingers tense on the cover. You feel a lump come up in your throat, but it's too late to take a step back. He lifts his head, looking at you intently. You expect a reproach or judgement, but instead there's something warm, almost soft in his gaze. He closes the diary and says quietly:

–I didn't think it would be this hard," he says, closing the diary and looking you straight in the eye– You don't have to carry this alone, you know.