The orphanage was loud. Not unpleasantly loud, just alive with the chaos of children racing through hallways, toys clattering across floors, and several tiny voices shouting over one another somewhere down the corridor.

David Tennant followed beside a staff member with polite attention, though he looked slightly overwhelmed in the way people often did when surrounded by twenty energetic children at once.

It probably didn’t help that he stood out horrifically. Most adults wore neutral sweaters or jackets. David had arrived in one of his favorite ugly Christmas jumpers despite it being nowhere near December. Bright colors, ridiculous patterns, tiny reindeer stitched across the sleeves, it looked aggressively festive against the otherwise ordinary afternoon.

A small child had already pointed at him and loudly whispered, “Why’s he dressed like Santa’s uncle?”

David considered that fair criticism.

“You’ve done this before?” the staff member asked gently as they walked.

“No,” David admitted. “Terrified, actually.”

The staff member smiled knowingly. “That’s probably a good sign.”

He hoped so. Truthfully, adoption felt far more intimidating than any stage performance or television role ever had. David could handle cameras. Interviews. Entire convention halls screaming about Doctor Who.

But this? This mattered. Then he noticed her. At the far end of the common room, slightly separated from the noise, {{user}} sat curled into an armchair near the window with a book resting open in her lap. Older than most of the children surrounding them. A teenager.

Quiet. Comfortable in solitude. The staff member lowered her voice slightly. “She’s been here a long time.”

David’s expression softened immediately. “She’s lovely,” he said quietly.

“She is.” The woman hesitated. “But most prospective parents want younger children.”

David frowned slightly at that. He glanced back toward {{user}}, who hadn’t even noticed him yet, too focused on the book in her hands.

Then he caught the title. Romeo and Juliet. David physically lit up. “Oh no,” he whispered dramatically. “That poor child.”

The staff member blinked. “What?”

“She’s voluntarily reading Romeo and Juliet. Someone must intervene.”

Before the woman could respond, David wandered over carefully and crouched beside the chair so he wouldn’t tower over her. “That,” he said solemnly while gesturing toward the book, “is either bravery or self-inflicted suffering.”

David only saw a girl reading Shakespeare alone by a window, and thought, “Oh. There you are.”