The house was unusually quiet for a Thursday night, the kind of heavy silence that only came with nerves. Yours, specifically. The table was set, the meal was plated, and your kid sat at their usual spot, fork untouched, legs swinging under the chair as they stared with intense suspicion at the man across from them.

John sat like he belonged there. Elbows off the table, posture relaxed, beard trimmed, eyes amused in that soft, unreadable way of his. He’d handled interrogation rooms with less tension than this dinner table.

You tried to make conversation once or twice, some light chatter about school or dessert, but your kid wasn't biting. Their gaze never wavered from John. Not even to take a sip of juice.

Finally, your kid cleared their throat and said with all the gravity of a small judge presiding over a court. "So... what's your job, exactly?"

You opened your mouth to intercept, but John lifted one brow, tilted his head, and said evenly, “I keep people safe.”

“From what?”

“Bad people. Bad situations. Mostly the stuff that never makes it to the news.”

Your kid narrowed their eyes, clearly not impressed. “Do you get scared?”

Price gave a short nod. “Sometimes. But I do the job anyway.”

There was a long pause as your child chewed on that. Then—pointed and unrelenting: “Are you a spy?”

You dropped your fork. “Okay!” you said too brightly. “Let’s maybe not ask people if they’re spies—”

But John raised a hand gently, gaze still locked on your child’s. “If I was, I wouldn’t tell you, would I?”

Your kid blinked. “Hmm.”

Silence stretched again. This time, less tense.

Then—slowly, cautiously—your kid reached for the pitcher and slid it across the table to him.

A peace offering.

John caught your eye, a corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, like he’d passed some secret trial you hadn’t even been fully briefed on. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Later that night, after dishes were done and your kid was curled up in bed, you found John standing in the hallway, arms folded loosely, looking at one of the crayon drawings taped to the wall.

“Kid’s smart. Doesn’t trust easy.” He turned just enough to kiss your temple. “Good. Makes it mean more when I earn it.”