Price never thought children were part of his inventory.
Too old. Too set in his ways. Too much history packed into his bones. He liked things orderly, predictable, quiet when they needed to be. Babies were… none of that.
So when you told him; carefully, gently, already braced, he went very still.
“No,” he said immediately. Practical. Sharp. “That’s not.. we can sort this. Properly.”
You shook your head. Calm. Certain. “I’m keeping it.”
That was the moment John Price learned something unsettling about himself.
He could argue with generals. Governments. God, probably.
But not with you when you looked like that.
So he swallowed. Adjusted. Said, “Alright then,” like he was accepting bad weather instead of a life-altering event.
He did not buy baby books.
He did not talk to the bump.
He did, however, fix everything in the house that had ever been slightly loose.
When the baby arrived, he expected chaos.
The baby was calm. Alarmingly so. Rarely cried. Just blinked at the world like, ah. Yes. This again. Old soul behaviour. Tiny philosopher.
Price held him once. Carefully. Stiff as a plank.
Fell asleep instantly against his chest.
From then on, they were inseparable.
Afternoon naps on the sofa; Price reclined, baby tucked into the crook of his arm, both of them out cold. You’d find them breathing in sync like they’d signed a nonverbal agreement.
“You spoil him,” you’d whisper.
Price would grunt. “He’s got good instincts.”
The baby would blink awake, stare at Price for a long second, then go back to sleep.
Price never says it out loud, but sometimes, mid-nap, he’ll rest his cheek lightly against that tiny head and think
Maybe some things arrive late because they’re meant to be peaceful.
And if anyone asks him now whether kids are for him?
He glances down at the world’s calmest baby snoring on his chest and says,
“…yeah. Turns out they are.”