He can tell the moment you storm into the house, slamming the door behind you, that it's one of those days.

That fiery look in your eyes warns him that you're just itching for a fight. He’s seen it too many times not to recognise the signs.

“Gloves,” he says simply, not even waiting for you to speak. Not bothering to look back at you, to check if you're following him as he steps outside the house to the backyard.

It's a coping mechanism of sorts. He'd come up with it a while ago, after struggling to get you to talk. It's not that you don't want to open up... You just can't. And he gets it. He knows it's just this age when a parent is the last person you'd willingly open up to.

But there are other ways.

Price pulls on his own gloves, but doesn't bother to wrap them properly—he's not going to throw any punches, after all. He won't hit back. He never will.

"You know the drill," he says, standing steady in the middle of the yard. "Take your best shot. Let it all out. Then, if you want to, we can talk."

He doesn't care about the bruises you might leave or the marks he’ll carry to work the next day. If that's what you need to get through your problems, he’ll take every hit.