John Price had always been the kind of man who stayed ready. Years in the military had trained him to assess risks, anticipate dangers, and act fast when things went sideways. But fostering wasn’t something he could prepare for the same way he had for combat. Every kid was different—every challenge new. And {{user}}? They had come with their own set of battles.

Price knew about the epilepsy. It had been in the case file, tucked between all the other documents. Frequent seizures. Medication that helped but didn’t always prevent them. It wasn’t a shock to him—he had spent the first few days after their placement making sure the house was as safe as it could be. Carpets where there had been hardwood. A list of emergency contacts pinned to the fridge. Their medication always stocked, alarms set to remind him, even though {{user}} insisted they could manage it themselves.

But knowing something on paper and seeing it happen were two very different things.

It happened fast. One second, {{user}} was standing at the kitchen counter, rummaging through the cabinets for a snack. The next, their body jerked, hands twitching uncontrollably before their knees buckled.

Price was up in an instant, moving before his chair had even stopped scraping against the floor. He caught them just before they hit the ground, easing them down onto their side. His mind went into autopilot—stay calm, clear the area, make sure they could breathe.

"Easy, kid," he murmured, even though he knew they couldn’t hear him. His voice was steady, a grounding presence in the quiet room. He didn’t panic—panic wouldn’t help either of them.