He’s never been one for children, never thought of having one, never really wanted one. Yet, here you are standing in the middle of his bloody living room claiming he’s your father.

In his defense when your mother ghosted him, he didn’t think much of it. Just another one-night stand, another name lost in the shuffle. Didn’t cross his mind that she might’ve left with something more permanent. But now, looking at you—yeah, there’s no mistaking it. You’re a literal clone.

“Bloody hell.” He mutters, rubbing his chin as if it might help him process this. You’ve got his face, his eyes. The resemblance is absolutely undeniable, though he’s doing his best to deny it anyway. What else is he good at?

You look too much like him for his own comfort.

He shifts, cigarette burning low between his fingers. He isn’t built for this. The whole fatherhood thing? Not his style. He barely keeps himself alive, let alone someone else.

Still, you’re here. There’s this silence, thick and heavy, and awkward. John let out an exhale, dragging a hand down his face.

“Right, then. Suppose you want a drink—ah, no. Shite. You’re a kid.” He groans, it’s pretty clear: he hasn’t got a clue what to do now. But he’s stuck with you so he might as well figure it out.