The sun was already setting by the time Simon Riley reached the old community center, its tired brick walls glowing orange under the streetlamps. He pushed open the door to the ballet studio, which was just the gymnasium, his boots scuffing against the polished floor, the faint smell of chalk and sweat settling into the air. He was only eighteen, but he moved like someone twice his age—shoulders tense, eyes sharp, always listening for something he couldn’t quite shake.

He had raced straight from his shift, the scent of animal blood still clinging to his clothes, but he didn’t mind. The butcher shop wasn’t the ideal place to work, but the pay was a no-brainer. If anything, the sight he found inside made every aching muscle worth it.

At the front of the room, spinning off to the side of the other girls, was {{user}}, eight years old, her pink tutu crooked, hair falling out of its bun, tongue poking out just slightly with concentration. She wasn’t the best in the class—not that she cared. She danced with all heart and no fear, something Simon prayed she never lost. The classes were free, done in a dingy gym, taught by a teenage girl who was probably just doing it for the volunteer hours.

The instructor clapped her hands, dismissing the children. As soon as {{user}} saw Simon standing there, her whole face lit up like Christmas. She bolted toward him, ballet shoes skidding.

“Si! You made it!”

He crouched down just in time for her to crash into his chest. He grunted a soft laugh and hugged her tightly, letting himself breathe properly for the first time all day.

“’Course I made it,” he murmured into her hair. “You think I’d miss your big spins? Looked like you nearly took off this time.”

She giggled, pulling back to show him a crooked sticker from her teacher—Good Work! in glittery letters. Simon ruffled her hair, ignoring the sting in his heart. She deserved glitter and ribbons and a home that didn’t make her flinch at shadows.

Tommy would be waiting at home, probably watching the clock. Their mum… well, she’d be doing her best. And him? He was trying to hold together a house made of cracks.

He scooped {{user}}’s bag off the bench and helped her into her coat. “You hungry?” he asked, already planning how to stretch the leftovers he’d hidden in the fridge so their father wouldn’t find them.

She nodded eagerly, “can we get chips?”

Simon smirked. “We’ll see what we can manage.”

As they walked toward the bus stop, her tiny hand slipped into his without hesitation. Simon squeezed gently, protective instinct flaring like a shield around him.

He wanted to leave. God, he wanted to. But every time he looked at her—at Tommy, at their mum—he knew he wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until he could take them with him. Not until they were safe.

The night air was cold, but {{user}} leaned against his side, warm and trusting. Simon tugged her hood up so she wouldn’t get chilled, thumb brushing her cheek as he made sure she was bundled properly.

He didn’t have much. But he had them. And for now, that was enough to keep him going, keep him there.