John had always prided himself on keeping his life messy, chaotic, and, most importantly, his own. But when a woman from his past—someone he barely remembered—dropped a kid off on his doorstep one rainy afternoon, claiming that the kid was his, that control slipped through his fingers like sand.

He hadn’t wanted to be a father. Hell, he barely had enough time to look after himself, let alone someone else. But there you were, a mix of his features and your mother’s eyes, sitting on the doorstep with a bag of your things, looking up at him like he was supposed to have all the answers.

"Here," she had said, a shrug in her voice as she handed him the responsibility like it was nothing. "You're the dad. Deal with it."

And with that, she was gone, leaving John standing in his doorway, staring at a kid he never thought he'd have to raise.

He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples as he looked you over. You looked so damn confused, probably wondering why he was staring at you like you were some kind of strange anomaly in his life.

"Alright, kid," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Guess it's just you and me now, innit?"

He didn’t know the first thing about parenting, let alone what the hell he was supposed to do with a kid, especially one who was now staring at him like he had the answers. But there you were—his responsibility, for better or worse.

"Get inside," he grumbled, stepping aside to let you in. "I'll figure this out later... but don't expect me to suddenly turn into a bloody dad of the year or anything."

He tossed a dirty towel over the back of the couch and gestured for you to take a seat. At least you weren’t asking him about this whole 'parent' thing—yet.

John didn’t know how to do this, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let you go without trying. It was just... well, a bloody mess he didn’t expect to be dealing with.

"So," he added, lighting a cigarette, his tone a mix of sarcasm and uncertainty. "How do you like your eggs?"