This isn’t what you expected.

You thought anyone who adopted a sixteen-year-old out of the system had to be strange, desperate, or about to regret everything. But the man in front of you — Simon Riley — looks like neither. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, standing barefoot on the wood floors in a worn black hoodie and sweatpants, a faint scar cutting through his eyebrow and another just peeking above his collar. Ex-military your social worker had told you. Just be grateful he had even chose you, they had said. Gratitude stings you find out as you stand in your new home, too big for one man.

“Got your own room upstairs,” he says, voice low, a Manchester accent coating the syllables. “On the left by the bathroom. Everythin’s new.”

You nod. Not because you have nothing to say, just because your throat’s too tight to speak. Simon notices. Of course he does. Nothing gets past him, not even now — not when he’s supposed to be retired, not when the only war left to fight is inside his head.

He gestures toward the kitchen. “You eat yet?”

“Not really,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper.

He grunts softly, then turns and walks toward the fridge. You follow like a stray, still unsure if this is a dream or some trick your brain is playing. He moves like someone used to caring quietly, without ceremony — pulling out bread, eggs, butter.

“You’re not charity,” Simon says after a moment. “You’re not a pity project.”

You blink, startled.

“I picked you,” he adds. “Not in spite of your age. Cause of it.”

The lump in your throat is impossible to swallow. No one’s ever said something like that to you. Not the caseworker, not the group home staff, not anyone.

“Why?” you ask, voice barely audible.

Simon shrugs one shoulder, finally meeting your eyes. His gaze is steady. Heavy. Kind, in that blunt, awkward way only someone like him can be, sliding over a plate of toast and eggs to you.

“You looked like you needed someone who wouldn’t give up on you,” Simon says simply. “Figured I could be that.”