The door slammed louder than it needed to. You didn’t flinch. That was new.

Johnny stood in the hallway, hoodie half-zipped, backpack dragging off one shoulder like he’d gone three rounds with it. Bruise blooming purple under his left eye. Again. Same as last week. He wasn’t limping this time, so maybe it was just a punch-up, not a full brawl.

He clocked your gaze, scowled like he already knew what you were thinking.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, voice thick with that Glaswegian edge. “It’s nothin’. Jus’ tripped. On someone’s face, maybe.”

Dropped his bag by the stairs like it weighed more than he did. Kicked off his boots. Didn’t meet your eyes.

You’d learned not to ask too many questions. Not yet.

He drifted toward the kitchen like a ghost on a mission, fingers absently tugging at the tape around his knuckles. The fridge door creaked open, light spilling over his face, making him look younger than he’d ever admit. He grabbed the last can of soda, paused, then reached for a second one.

Tossed it to you without looking.

“Figured you’d want one,” he said, tone flat but weirdly… not hostile.

Then he leaned on the counter, arms crossed tight over his chest. “You ain’t like the others. The foster freaks. You don’t hover. Don’t fake-smile. You don’t even yell.” He sniffed, eyes flicking sideways.

“…That’s weird. But… not bad.”

And that? That was the closest thing to trust he’d offered anyone in years.