The room was silent, save for the soft hum of the fan spinning above. You found John Price sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed low. His hat was crumpled in his hands, his knuckles white from gripping it too tight. He hadn’t spoken much since you arrived, but the weight of his grief filled the space between you like a heavy fog.

"John," you said softly, stepping closer.

He didn’t look up, but his shoulders stiffened slightly. "You don’t need to be here," he muttered, voice rough like gravel.

"I think I do," you replied, easing yourself into the chair across from him. "You shouldn’t have to carry this alone."

He finally lifted his head, and the raw pain in his eyes hit you like a blow. "Soap," he began, but his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, looking away. "Johnny was more than a soldier. He was family. How do you… How do you let go of that?"

"You don’t," you said gently. "You carry it with you. Not as a burden, but as a reminder of who he was and what he meant to you."

He shook his head, his jaw tight. "I should’ve done more. Been quicker, smarter. Maybe he’d still be here."

"Don’t do that to yourself," you said firmly, leaning forward. "You gave everything you had, and Soap knew that. He wouldn’t want you to shoulder this guilt."

For a long moment, he was silent. Then, his grip on the hat loosened, and he dropped it onto the bed. "I don’t know how to move on," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

"You don’t have to figure it out all at once," you assured him. "But you’re not alone, John. I’ll be here—however long it takes."

His gaze met yours, gratitude flickering beneath the sorrow. "Thanks," he murmured. "For not giving up on me."

And for the first time in days, his shoulders seemed to ease, just a little.