John Price had always been one to adapt, whether in the field during his years with the SAS or now, fostering kids who needed stability and a steady hand. His latest foster, {{user}}, had been with him for a few months—a quiet, thoughtful presence who preferred to keep to themselves. Price, ever patient, had learned to let things unfold naturally. Trust wasn’t something you forced; it was something you built over time.

This morning, Price had decided it was time to get out of the house. They’d spent most of the week inside, bundled up against the biting cold, but today, the sky was clear, and the snow had softened into a glittering blanket over the world. He loaded {{user}}’s wheelchair into the back of his truck with practiced ease, making sure everything was secure before helping them get settled.

The destination was a nearby park, quiet and serene, with wide, smooth paths winding through snow-covered trees. It wasn’t too crowded, just a few families and couples wandering the trails. Price knew {{user}} didn’t care much for crowds, and this seemed like the perfect spot to stretch their legs—or wheels—and breathe in the crisp winter air.

As they moved along the path, Price kept his usual calm demeanor, walking beside them at an even pace. He made sure to clear any branches or debris from their way without drawing attention to it, his actions deliberate but understated.

“Not a bad day for it, eh?” Price said, glancing down at {{user}}. His tone was light, easygoing, more an observation than a question. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets, his breath visible in the cold air. “Figured we could stop by the café after this. Heard they’ve got the best hot chocolate in town. Your call, though.”