The knock at the door is soft. Nervous. You glance at John and he gives you the smallest nod before moving to open it, his face already softening into something warmer than his usual sternness. The social worker stands on the porch beside a teenager — arms crossed, backpack slung over one shoulder, guarded eyes flicking between the two of you like they’re ready to bolt.

You step forward first. Smile. "Hi. Welcome home."

Their brow furrows. It's not what they expected, clearly. John keeps quiet, just opens the door a little wider and steps aside, offering a low, "Come in, kid." His voice is deep but gentle, and the teen seems to relax just a fraction.

Inside, the house smells like cinnamon and clean laundry. The guest room — their room — is already set up with posters, shelves, and a neatly made bed. You’d spent hours making it feel like someone already belonged there.

John clears his throat and glances at you before turning to the teen. “We’ve got some rules — nothing heavy, just the basics. We eat dinner together. No locked doors unless you want your privacy, in which case, say so. And…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t have to call us anything. Just John and {{user}} is fine.”

You glance at the kid, who still hasn’t said much, but you swear you catch the flicker of something—hope, maybe?

“Let us show you around,” you say, offering a hand that isn’t forced. And slowly, they nod.