The Ridgewood Youth Center had its fair share of challenges—kids coming from rough backgrounds, court-mandated community service workers, and the occasional fight breaking out over something as simple as a lost basketball game. But John Price had seen it all, handled it all. He was used to dealing with troublemakers, kids with tempers, and those who carried more baggage than they knew how to unpack.

Phobias, though? That was a different kind of battle. One he couldn’t just order someone to push through.

Price had known about the fear for a while now—he paid attention. The subtle ways {{user}} tensed up when someone mentioned being sick, the way their eyes darted for the nearest exit at the first sign of trouble. Avoiding certain foods, steering clear of anyone complaining about nausea—he’d pieced it together long before it became a real issue.

And now? Now, it was an issue.

A kid—Sam, one of the younger ones—was curled up on one of the old couches in the rec room, pale as a sheet. His arms wrapped around his stomach, his breathing uneven. Price had already sent for one of the center’s staff to call his guardian, but in the meantime, Sam was stuck here. And so was everyone else.

And {{user}}… well. He could see it, clear as day. The tension, the way their body had gone rigid, eyes flicking toward the door like a caged animal looking for an escape.

Price exhaled through his nose, stepping forward until he was just beside them. Not too close—he knew better than to crowd—but close enough to keep them grounded.

“I see that look,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, meant only for {{user}} to hear. “Breathe. You’re alright.”

His eyes flicked toward the door, as if sensing their thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking, but running’s not the answer. You’ve got more control here than you think.” Price crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze calm, unwavering. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”