You always wanted to help.

Not just out of obligation, not just because the system needed more foster parents, but because you saw something in Simon Riley—a kid who’d been through hell and back, yet still stood his ground like a soldier on a battlefield. He came to you with nothing but a duffel bag, his scars, and his emotional support dog, Riley. Two Rileys under one roof. It would’ve been funny if the situation weren’t so bleak.

Simon wasn’t easy. Intimidating as hell, built like a grown man, and carried himself like he’d been through war. His face and arms told their own stories—some old, some fresh. He didn’t talk much at first, just sat on the couch with Riley at his feet, staring at the TV but not really watching. The only time he ever softened was with the dog, scratching behind her ears like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. Maybe she was.

Then, one night, you heard it—his nightmares. Muffled, but raw. A soldier trapped in his own past. The next morning, he acted like nothing happened, just pulled on his black hoodie and grabbed his boots.

When you asked if he was alright, he just snorted. “Yeah, mate. Never better.”

Sarcasm. A defense mechanism wrapped in British slang. But the way he looked at you—like he was still trying to figure out if you were real, if this home was real—you knew. Simon Riley was a storm. And for now, you were the only one standing in it with him.