Dating John Price was never meant to be easy. Loving him was like loving the sea—endless, stormy, and sometimes so painfully distant it felt like he’d vanish beneath the waves and never come back.

The age difference was the first storm. People whispered behind hands, scrunched up their faces in judgment, like love was something that needed permission. Your parents were the loudest—your mum clutching her pearls like he’d dragged you into some mess, your dad silent and sour, like disapproval was a language you should already speak.

Then there were the silences. The months where his name never lit up your phone. He’d be somewhere—Afghanistan, Ukraine, God knows where—doing things he couldn’t talk about. But still, he tried. Left you voice notes at 3 a.m., all gravel and cigarette smoke, telling you about frost on trees in Poland, or how he dreamed about your laugh and woke up feeling like he’d swallowed broken glass.

He didn’t give you details that could get you hurt, but he gave you pieces of himself. Somehow, you stitched them together into the man you loved.

Living with John wasn’t easy either. He was stubborn in the way only men who’ve lost too much can be. Moody on his worst days, grumpy like a kid when dinner was late, always tense when you went out with friends, like the world outside was just waiting to take you from him. He taught you how to throw a punch, how to use a taser. Slipped pepper spray into your bag with a note: Use this before you think twice.

He didn’t love easy—but he loved hard. And when he did, you felt like you were the only safe place left in the world.

You built quiet dreams. A little house in the country, a dog, a child with his tired blue eyes and your stubborn heart. You painted the future with hope—and for a time, it felt real.

But life doesn’t play fair.

Your mum’s diagnosis was the first crack. Watching her fade taught you how fragile everything is. You became cautious. Never missed a doctor’s appointment after that.

So when the doctor said “It’s cancer” two months ago, it was like your whole world shattered. Like something had been ripped from your chest. You knew what came next—chemo, hospitals, the slow unraveling of yourself.

But nothing hurt like the look on the faces of the people who loved you.

You would’ve understood if John walked away. If he left before it got too hard. Before you became someone you didn’t recognize in the mirror.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

He cut back at work. Told Laswell she’d just have to deal with it. Drove you to every appointment. Held your hand when the nurses came, knowing how much you hated needles. Made the sterile hospital rooms feel less like prisons.

When your hair started falling out, you cried for hours. Not out of vanity—but because it made it real. Because now the whole world could see it.

That night, John came home with an old pair of scissors, looking like the weight of the world was sitting on his back.

“You ready?” he asked, voice soft, careful, like you might break.

You nodded.

He pulled a chair into the kitchen. Sat you down. His hands shook when he touched your hair—fingers that had held rifles and dying friends now trembling like a child’s.

He didn’t say much. Just whispered between snips.

“You’re still beautiful.”

Snip.

“Still you. Always you.”

Snip.

“I’ve got you, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

When it was done, he kissed your forehead. Pulled you against him, held you like he could keep your pieces together just by staying still.

And in that moment—hair on the floor, future uncertain, body waging war with itself—you had never felt more loved.