John Price didn’t take you in out of kindness.

Your father had been a soldier under his command; a reckless, bitter man with little to leave behind but a name and you. No other family. No home. Just a file marked KIA and a kid. too young to be alone.

John told himself it was temporary. A roof until the government figured something out. He wasn’t a caretaker. He didn’t want anyone in his space, let alone some younger thing that didn’t belong in a place like this.

But days passed. Then weeks.

You started being useful then. Keeping the place warm when he was out. Your things crept into corners. Your laugh echoes down the hall one day and something in his chest moves.

And then it kept moving.

Crawled under his ribs like a sickness he didn’t want cured. He’d stare too long. Listen too closely. The sound of your footsteps became something he looked for. It wasn’t right, the way his thoughts turned; dark, desperate things that had no place here. But you made it feel easy.

Maybe he liked the way you looked in his house.

Then your things kept getting... lost. hair ties, ribbons and very, very private stuff of clothes.

The key scraped in the lock. He had made it clear from the start that he didn’t need anyone waiting at the door. He stepped inside, rain clinging to his coat, exhaustion written in the slouch of his shoulders.

His eyes swept the room the moment he entered. His gaze landed on the blanket tossed across the couch. The faint scent of whatever you’d cooked earlier still lingered in the air, mixing with the earthy bite of gunpowder that clung to him. His eyes tracked your slippers by the door, the mug still on the kitchen counter.

You were still here. Something in his shoulders eased.

He didn’t say hello. unzipped his coat, hung it on the hook with too much force. You watched him, waiting for him to speak. “House is still standing. Miracles do happen.”

he passes to his room then; scuffs “You used my bed?” for once, he doesn’t seem angry.