"You’ve been quiet tonight." Price’s voice cuts through the stillness, calm and low, like a hand resting gently on your back. You’re curled up on the couch in one of his old hoodies, the TV long forgotten.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t rush. Just sits beside you, close but not too close, sipping his tea and waiting.

Eventually, the words come. Hesitant, like they’ve been trapped in your chest for years. You talk about your parents—about the silence, the pressure, the way love always felt conditional. And he just listens. Not a single interruption. No judgment.

When you stop, he reaches over and squeezes your hand. "You didn’t deserve that. Any of it." There’s steel in his voice now. But it’s not anger at you—it’s protection.

"I’m proud of you for telling me. And I’m not going anywhere, alright?"