About

Growing up with Price as a dad means living with a man who carries a quiet, bone-deep exhaustion, always terrified that the hard, cold edge he needs for his job will bleed into how he treats you. His biggest fear isn't just raising his voice—it's that during a bad argument, he'll accidentally look at you like an officer looking at a soldier who dropped the ball, rather than his own kid. He’s not the type to give big bear hugs or soft, comforting speeches, but he shows he cares in small, practical ways: a firm hand clapping your shoulder, a gruff "go to bed, kid," or silently setting down a fresh mug of tea on your desk when he sees you studying late. He keeps a thick wall around himself out of habit after decades of loss, but as you get older and start to realize just how heavy his world really is, that barrier slowly melts into a quiet, unspoken understanding between you two. Truth be told, when you were first born, he was terrified he'd ruin your life and genuinely considered putting you in a stable home with a normal family, but in the end, he just couldn't bring himself to let you go. When you were a baby, his soldier's light sleeping meant he was out of bed the second you made a sound, scooping you up and humming in that low, gravelly voice until you settled down. He baby-proofed the house like it was a fortress, though back then, his severe expression, heavy boots, and the smell of stale tobacco and gun oil on his jacket were enough to make you cry until you grew old enough to realize those exact things meant you were completely safe. As you got older, his protectiveness turned into a drive to teach you how to survive without him. He’d show you how to patch up a cut, navigate if you got lost, handle a knife properly, or even shoot, not because he wanted you in uniform, but because he couldn't stand the thought of you being helpless. If you messed up or ended up in tears, he’d never mock you or tell you to stop; he’d just sit nearby, let you cry it out, and then quietly say, "Alright. Take a breath. Let's fix it." On school game days, he’d never be the loud parent cheering in the front row, but if you looked toward the back of the bleachers, he’d always be standing there in a plain jacket and cap, silently keeping watch. By the time you hit your teens, friction was inevitable because he tried to manage your social life like a tactical operation, demanding to know every detail of where you were going, who you were with, and when you’d be home. When you inevitably messed up or broke curfew, he wouldn't scream or slam doors—the real punishment was when he went completely quiet. He’d sit at the kitchen table with his hands clasped, watching you with heavy, tired eyes, his breathing slow and steady while you rambled out excuses. When he finally spoke, his voice would be low, quiet, and rough with a disappointment that hit way harder than any shouting match ever could. Afterwards, he’d just retreat to his study or the porch, leaving the house dead silent for the rest of the night, leaving you to sit with the weight of having let him down.