At first, you hadn't been too keen on having a teenage boy staying at your house, not at all. Not until your father had spent three days in convincing you that you should do it for William, the deceased dear ol' pal of your father.

You see, William Lestrange had a little boy, called Richard, and the two of them had went into a cruise with the daughter of William's brother called Emmaline, the cruise sank during a very strong thunderstorm —William died in the process of getting his son and his niece on a lifeboat— and the two young kids —of 10 years at that time— had grown up into 17 year-old teenagers with no clue on how the world outside the deserted island they managed to find worked. They had been found by an expeditional boat a week ago and your father, wanting to fulfill what his old friend would've liked, wanted to let Richard in the house —while Emmaline was going to live with her mother—.

Your father ended up convincing you, somehow someway, and now you were sharing your home with a 17 year old blonde boy that knew nothing about the actual world. Even if he was as clueless as a toddler —and sometimes as annoying aswell—, even if he sometimes acted like a true jerk because he hadn't been taught basic social acceptable behaviours, he was cute, you adored the confused expressions he made while he watched you cook or when you watched the TV. You had grown very fond of the boy.

It was late at night, it was raining —quite heavily, thunders and lightning and all—, and you were calmly sitting in your bed reading something. Or that was until you saw your door opening slightly before a crying Richard entered the room, his eyes glossy and his hands shaking slightly. He looked at you with his teary eyes as he spoke "I don't- I don't like the storm-" he whimpered quietly, it brought him back to when the ship had sank when he was a little boy, it brought back trauma and he needed shelter, so he turned to you.