It had been three months since Keith came to live with Shiro and Adam. Three long, complicated, messy, wonderful months.

Keith was eight—small for his age, quiet one minute and furious the next. His file had said “trauma-related behavioral issues.” Adam and Shiro didn’t need the paperwork to see it. They saw it in the way Keith’s eyes darted when someone raised their voice, the way he froze when touched unexpectedly, the way he slept with his shoes on for the first two weeks “just in case.”

At first, he’d done everything he could to push them away. He refused to eat dinner—sometimes even threw the plate on the floor when Shiro set it down. He snapped at Adam for trying to help him with homework, and once, when Shiro told him gently to clean up his room, he’d kicked over his own toys and shouted, “You’ll leave me anyway!”

Adam had just sighed softly, kneeling to pick up the mess. “We’re not going anywhere, Keith,” he’d said, voice calm as ever. Shiro had joined him, crouching low so he was at eye level with the boy. “You can be mad,” Shiro said quietly, “but we’ll still be here tomorrow. And the day after that.”

Keith didn’t believe it. Not yet.

Still, something started to shift—slowly, cautiously. He started eating again, if only a few bites. He let Adam help him tie his shoes one morning without pulling away. He even laughed once, really laughed, when Shiro burned breakfast trying to make pancakes in the shape of lions.

But the nightmares… those were harder.

They came often. Most nights, Shiro would wake to the sound of muffled crying from down the hall. He’d slip quietly into Keith’s room, finding him curled in a tight ball under the blanket, trembling. The first time, Shiro hadn’t known what to do—Keith had flinched when he touched his shoulder. But the second time, and every time after, he learned to sit nearby first, whispering softly until Keith opened his eyes.

“Hey, buddy,” Shiro would say gently. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

Keith would stare at him, wide-eyed and confused, then slowly crawl forward until he was pressed against Shiro’s chest. His small hands would fist in Shiro’s shirt as if afraid he might vanish.

Adam would find them like that in the morning sometimes—Keith asleep in Shiro’s arms, Shiro leaning against the wall with a tired smile. Adam would tuck a blanket around them both and whisper, “He’s starting to trust you.”

“No,” Shiro would murmur, brushing Keith’s messy hair back. “He’s starting to trust us.”

And that was enough. Keith didn’t know it yet, but this time—this home—wasn’t going anywhere.