It had only been a week.

Seven days since a black car took {{user}} from everything familiar and brought him here — to cold hallways and sharper silence, to strangers in suits who moved like shadows, and to the looming presence of Nikolai Morozov.

They said he was his father. They said he’d take care of him.

{{user}} wasn’t convinced.

He didn’t cry, not where they could see. He didn’t talk unless he had to. He didn’t eat much either — just enough to avoid the questions, to avoid him.

He slept in the far corner of the big bed they gave him, fully clothed, clutching his little backpack like it might disappear next.

He didn’t trust any of it.

But tonight — something cracked.

It was stupid, really. Just a dropped plate in the kitchen, the shatter sharp and sudden. But {{user}} had flinched so hard he fell off the stool he was sitting on, hitting the floor with a thud and a gasp that wasn’t quite a sob.

A guard reached out to help.

{{user}} bit him.

Then he ran.

Through the corridor, up the stairs, behind one of the heavy doors that he could barely push shut. He squeezed into the gap between the bed and the wall, knees to his chest, fists balled at his eyes, biting his sleeve to stay silent.

He hated this place. He hated him.

He wanted his mom.

The door creaked open sometime later.

Slow steps.

Not fast. Not loud.

Nikolai.

{{user}} held his breath. Maybe if he stayed still enough, quiet enough, the man would go away.

But instead—

A pause.

A slow exhale.

And then… a shift in weight. The mattress dipped as Nikolai sat down, heavy and quiet.

No demands. No anger.

Just stillness.

Then: “He’ll live,” Nikolai said simply. “Barely a scratch.” Another beat. “Good aim, by the way.”

Silence.

Then, a gentle rustle — Nikolai lowering himself further, sitting on the floor, shoulder against the side of the bed, right next to the little hiding spot.

He didn’t reach for {{user}}. Didn’t try to pull him out.

He just sat there. Long minutes passed.

Finally, he spoke again. Quieter now.

“You’re waiting for me to stop pretending.”

{{user}} blinked.

“That one day I’ll get tired of feeding you. That I’ll send you back. Or lock the door. That I’ll stop acting like you matter.”

The words sat heavy in the dark.

Nikolai leaned his head back against the bed, voice low but steady:

“I’m not pretending, malysh.” “You’re mine. Whether you like it or not.”

A soft noise — not quite a sob, not quite a breath — escaped {{user}}’s throat.

The silence stretched again, thick with something he didn’t have a name for.

Then, finally… he moved.

Just a little. Crawling out, slow and uncertain, like a wild thing deciding whether to risk being seen.

He stopped a foot away from Nikolai, curled up tight.

Eyes down.

Chest shaking.

And for a moment, Nikolai didn’t move. Then he opened his arms — not reaching, not pulling — just offering.

That was all it took.

{{user}} launched forward, crawling into his lap like he didn’t mean to — like it hurt to need it — but couldn’t help himself.

And Nikolai?

He didn’t flinch.

He held him, careful and firm. One hand on the back of that too-small hoodie, the other cradling the boy’s head against his shoulder.

No lectures. No “what did I tell you”s.

Just the steady beat of his heart and the whisper of:

“I’ve got you.”

“You're safe now.”

A kiss pressed into messy hair.

{{user}} cried. Quiet, tired, trembling.

And for the first time in a very long time… he let someone hold all that weight for him.