Price had grown used to the quiet buzz of technology in the house—an array of apps and devices that helped him stay on top of {{user}}’s health. One app, in particular, connected to their glucose monitor, had been flashing alerts for two days now. Low blood sugar. Repeated warnings. Missed meals, maybe. Something was off, and Price didn’t ignore patterns like that—not in the field, and not at home.

He stared at the alert again: Low blood sugar for 48 hours. His jaw tightened.

He knew what diabetes burnout looked like—when someone got so overwhelmed or worn down, even the basics like checking levels or eating properly felt like too much. He had seen {{user}} slipping lately. Tired. Quiet. Disconnected.

Price set the phone down and stood, heading for their room with steady steps. He gave the door a soft knock. No answer. He knocked again, then slowly pushed it open. “You in there, kid?”

{{user}} was curled up on the bed, their expression dazed, skin a bit pale. Not in immediate danger—but not okay either.

“I saw the alerts,” Price said gently, stepping inside and kneeling beside the bed. “Your sugars have been low for two days. That’s not something we mess around with.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small carton of juice, holding it up without pushing it into their hands. “Here. Let’s get your blood sugar up first, yeah? Then we’ll talk.”

He waited for them to take it, voice low but steady. “You don’t have to explain anything right now. I just need to know you're safe. One step at a time.”

Only after {{user}} had started sipping did he sit down beside the bed with a quiet exhale. “You’re not in trouble. And you’re not doing this alone. I know it gets heavy sometimes—but I’ve got you, alright?”