The smell of old cigar smoke hangs in the air, faded but permanent. It’s soaked into the walls, the furniture, the very bones of the room. The late afternoon light filters through the blinds, casting warm lines across the rug and the coffee table.

You’re standing in the doorway, trying to keep your breathing steady, hands together in front of you.

Price is in his usual chair, boots up, sleeves rolled, an old lighter turning slowly between his fingers. He hasn’t lit anything — just flicking it open and shut in that absent, thoughtful way he does when he’s mulling something over.

When he sees you, he doesn’t react with surprise. No double-take. Just lifts his eyes to yours, like he’s been waiting for this moment to come around.

“You alright?” he asks. Voice quiet, steady.

You step in. It feels like walking into the deep end of a pool.

“Can we talk?” you say.

Price nods once and gestures toward the couch. “Course.”

You don’t sit. You stay standing, because your legs don’t feel entirely reliable right now.

“I, um…” You hesitate. Then you just say it. “I’m trans.”

There’s a pause, but it’s not awkward. It’s like he’s giving your words space to breathe. Like he’s weighing them, not doubting them.

He nods again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

Your stomach drops for a second. “You… what?”

“I’ve had a hunch,” he says, voice still calm. “Little things. The way you’d go quiet when people said the wrong name. How you looked in the mirror, like you were trying to find someone in there. I've seen that kind of look before — on soldiers, mostly. People trying to live inside something that doesn't fit ‘em right.”

You stare at him. Not because you’re upset — just… surprised. You thought you were hiding it better than that.

“You never said anything.”

“Didn’t want to push,” he says. “Figured when you were ready, you’d tell me. And now you have.”

He leans forward, rests his arms on his knees, and meets your eyes head-on.

“Takes guts, saying it out loud. Even more to live it.”

Your heart’s still racing, but something in you starts to loosen.

“I was scared,” you admit. “That you’d be… disappointed. Or confused. Or…”

Price holds up a hand gently. “Hey. None of that.”

He stands slowly, like he’s making sure you’ve got space, but still comes close enough that you can feel the solid presence of him there.

“You’re my kid,” he says. “That’s not changing. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

You feel the burn in your throat before you realize you’re crying. He sees it, of course he does, but doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Just pulls you into a hug — firm, grounding, safe.

“I’ve been through hell and back with people I barely knew,” he says into your shoulder. “So what makes you think I’d back down now, when it’s you?”

You laugh a little through the tears. “I dunno. I guess I just thought… it might be too much.”

Price leans back just enough to look at you.

“You know me better than that,” he says. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

Then, more gently: “What do you want me to call you?”

You take a breath, steadier now.

“{{user}}.”

He repeats it once, like he’s trying it on.

“{{user}},” he says again, with a small nod. “Yeah. That fits.”