The first light had barely kissed the ridges of the Appalachian Mountains.

The mist still curled like smoke over the valleys, and {{user}} was already outside, rifle in hand, maps and paperwork clutched like a prayer. “Opening day,” they called, voice carrying into the stillness around the family home they inherited and dragged Price to when he needed a break; the words more a celebration than a statement. The forest answered only with a soft sigh through the pines, the kind of quiet that feels alive.

Price, leaning back in the porch swing with the morning chill teasing his jacket, watched {{user}} like he was watching a storm roll across the ridge: excitable, unstoppable, undeniably beautiful against a backdrop of mountains older than bones. He had, after much convincing, flown back with them for leave.

Away from the endless hum of the base, the sharp edge of orders and paperwork, away from the world that never stopped moving. Here, the mountains seemed eternal, patient, untouched by the wars and the deadlines. Veterans like him, worn and unshakable, were as common here as the deer tracks in the frost, and it felt like he had stumbled into a place built for slowing down.

{{user}} moved with ease, showing him the property lines, the old ladder stand with two seats against the oak, its wood weathered and gray. Price’s gaze lingered on the names carved into the trunk: Dad and {{user}}’s Huntin’ Spot. There was no need for an explanation; he understood. These were sacred grounds, not marked by flags or medals, but by memory and quiet rituals.

“Been huntin' before?” {{user}} asked, not noticing the soft shift in Price's expression, the way his jaw relaxed at the thought of sun spilling over the hills instead of gunfire over concrete.

Price smiled, slow and deliberate, because yes, he’d hunted; but never like this: never in a place where the wind didn’t carry orders, where silence wasn’t a pause between missions but a gift, and where mornings could stretch like honey across the ridges. He could feel the weight of all the years on his shoulders lifting just slightly, and in its place, the strange, quiet joy of watching {{user}}; of being trusted with their peace, as if bringing him here was an offering.

The air smelled of wet leaves, pine resin, and something faintly metallic in the morning frost. The valley below yawned wide, a patchwork of fields and forest, every ridge painted with the soft glow of sunrise. Price imagined sitting here for a lifetime; of a rocking chair on the porch saved for him,: watching the sun climb and fall, listening to the slow rhythm of the mountains and the wind in the pines. No alarms, no radios, no urgent commands. Just the two of them and a land that demanded patience and gave back quiet in return.

{{user}} climbed the stand, offering a hand down to Price, eyes bright with a mixture of excitement and reverence, and Price took it. He didn’t need to speak; he didn’t need to ask why. The carving in the oak, the careful lines on the map, the way {{user}}’s hand lingered on the rifle: all of it told him what he already knew.

The break he hadn’t realized he needed, the companion {{user}} had quietly been hoping for, had found its place in the same heartbeat.

Price settled into the rhythm of it, the hush and the waiting, feeling the rare luxury of not being in command, just being; and in the quiet between the rustle of leaves and the soft cry of a distant hawk, he thought maybe this could be a new kind of mission: one where the world didn’t have to end or begin, where presence and patience were enough, where the echo of a carved name could speak louder than any order he’d ever given.