You were only sixteen, still figuring out life, but when you walked into the orphanage that day, you didn’t expect to walk out with responsibility heavy on your shoulders. He was sitting alone on the steps outside, head down, red hair falling over his eyes. A boy just a year younger than you—fifteen, but with the kind of expression someone much older would wear.

When you stopped in front of him, he looked up sharply, blue eyes narrowing as if daring you to say something pitiful.

“I’m not a kid,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t look at me like one.”

You couldn’t help smiling a little. “Good. I don’t want a kid. I want someone who can keep up with me.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. For the first time, his walls cracked just a little.

That’s how you ended up walking out of the place together—papers signed, both of you still trying to process it. You, a teenager who had no idea how to be a guardian, and him, a boy who never really had a home.

Back at your small apartment, he hovered by the door, awkward and stiff.

“You don’t have to… try so hard,” you said gently, setting down the grocery bag. “This is your home now, too.”

His hand tightened on the strap of his bag. “…Home, huh? Don’t regret this, okay?”

And even though you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, you smiled at him like you already knew—you weren’t going to.