John Price had faced insurgents, terrorists, ambushes in cities that had no names left. But none of that made him feel as uncertain as walking into the brightly lit waiting room of the local GP with a toddler on his hip and a crumpled note from the gp in his back pocket.

{{user}}, had'nt said a word since breakfast. They didn’t cry when he helped them into their coat. They didn’t smile when he offered the soft socks with the tiny ducks on them. Just silence.

Price had learned to listen to the language of their silences. They spoke in movements and glances, in shoulders tensed against a seatbelt or in small hands that went stiff at the sound of fluorescent lights humming above. Today, {{user}} had gone unusually still the moment he put their shoes on.

He had carried them out to the car anyway, {{user}} didn’t squirm like usual when the seatbelt clicked, just sat small hands folded in their lap, eyes fixed on the world outside the window.

Price drove slower than normal, trying to buy a little more time. Time before the new room, the new smell, the new voice asking questions they wouldn’t want to answer.

“I’ve got you,” Price said quietly, lifting them again, one hand firm beneath their legs. “We’ll be in and out. Just a check-up. Nothing scary.”

The words felt clumsy in his mouth. Not because there would be pain, there wouldn’t, but because for {{user}}, the unfamiliar was pain. Bright lights were pain. New voices, new walls, all the quiet rules of places that never explained themselves.

The receptionist didn’t ask too many questions, just told them to wait for Room Five. He turned, scanning the chairs. They were plastic, pale blue, bolted to each other in rows. Too bright. Too wide open. No corners to tuck into, no shadows to retreat to. Not good.

“Want to sit by the window?” he asked softly.

{{user}} didn’t answer, just tucked their face into his shoulder. So he sat, his hand rubbing slow circles into their back. Around them, the room filled with coughs and the rustle of paper leaflets. Somewhere, a toddler was screaming about a sticker. Another kid was playing something loud on a phone.

Price could feel the change before it came. {{user}}’s body stiffened, slowly at first. Their fingers gripped the collar of his coat. Their breathing changed, faster, shallower. He didn’t speak. Instead, he reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out the small tin {{user}} had chosen to bring. It was full of buttons, bottle caps, and three smooth stones. He opened it without asking, held it where they could see.

It took a minute, but one hand loosened from his coat and reached, fingers twitching slightly. They picked up a stone and turned it in their palm. Familiar weight. The noise didn’t stop, phones, sneezes, a baby crying, but {{user}} had something to hold onto. Something to anchor. It wasn’t long before their name was called. Dr. Leslie, room Five.

The room was empty when they arrived. Just a small space with one desk, two chairs, a little paper-covered exam table, and walls that had seen too many seasons of cheap posters curling at the edges. He stepped in and shut the door behind them.

“Alright,” he said softly, kneeling down and setting {{user}} gently on one of the chairs. They didn’t resist. Just sat there, hunched, like they were waiting for something to go wrong.

Price crouched in front of them, arms resting on his knees so he wouldn’t seem too close. He didn’t want to corner them. He wanted to meet them where they were.

“Listen, poppet,” he said. “I know this place feels strange. I know it smells weird, and it’s too bright, and the chairs are rubbish.”

He waited, watching their eyes. No reaction, but no withdrawal either.

“But I promise, nothing bad’s going to happen today. Just a doctor, alright? She’s kind. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t touch unless you want her to.”

Their hands had found the sleeve of his jacket and were curling the fabric over and over between their fingers.

“You can hold my hand the whole time,” he said. “Or not. Up to you. But there’s nothing to be scared of love, I'm right here.”