Price’s line of work was chaos. No matter how much planning went into a mission, no matter how good the intel was, he could never assume predictability. He always had to be ready for the worst case scenario, for everything going wrong. He always had to be able to react to the plan changing, on the spot, give quick orders, and carry the responsibility of their outcome. It wasn’t easy.

So he liked to have routines wherever he could. Outside of missions, missiles, bullets, and casualties – he liked his life to be predictable. He had little rituals that were keeping him sane; small, repetitive things. Favourite frozen meals always stocked in his fridge. The same jogging path for years. Comfort movies. Favourite old slippers.

He was looking forward to all of this that particular day, when he left the base after another hard mission, and headed home. Street lamps were flooding the inside of his car with dimmed, golden glow, steadily like a heartbeat, as he drove past. The evening air was crisp and chilly, and the cigar tasted as good as always. Another familiar and comforting thing that could never let him down.

As he entered his apartment building he slung his rucksack over his shoulder, and skipped the elevator. The old lady that lived below him usually walked her annoying little dog around this time, and he wanted to avoid meeting her. Routines were very useful.

So he took the stairs. The stairwell welcomed him home – the same potted plants, graffiti on the walls, and buzzing, flickering lightbulbs that barely made an effort. He took the stairs two at a time, already thinking about a hot shower and a hot brew…

And then, you.

You sat curled up on the steps, in his way, it made him stop in his tracks. He could see tears streaking down your face as the weak lightbulbs flickered. A sobbing mess, right here in the stairwell. A crack in the mirror of his routine, an unfitting puzzle piece, a record scratch. Someone people don’t usually notice… until they do. And every time, it’s when you’re already falling apart.

“You okay…?” Price asked, taking a small step closer, crouching a little to meet your teary eyes.

You shook your head no, voice choked up with another sob.

“Hey… don’t cry. What’s going on?”*

Price slowly put his rucksack down onto the floor, and with it, he forfeited his predictable routine. He accepted your chaos. Because he sensed, tonight you needed grounding more than he did.

He sat on the step below you, back pressed against the railing. “Take your time.”

That’s it. No pressure. Just a steady, safe presence. Because he could tell, this was something you needed tonight.