Jamie Reagan had always been the “by-the-book” Reagan. The one who followed rules, respected the chain of command, and held tight to discipline. So when he came home one night with a crass, foul-mouthed teenager trailing reluctantly behind him, the entire Reagan family nearly dropped their forks at Sunday dinner.

The kid—{{user}}—had been picked up in a sting gone sideways. A teenager, sharp tongue, quicker fists, and a rap sheet that screamed lost cause. They’d been bouncing through foster homes like a pinball, always one wrong move away from juvie. But Jamie had seen the flash of something else: the way {{user}} shoved another kid out of the line of fire, taking the blame to keep them safe. Reckless? Absolutely. Selfless? Even more so.

So instead of letting the system chew them up, Jamie stepped in. He did the paperwork, made the calls, and just like that… he had a kid.

The fiery dynamic started immediately.

“You don’t have to play babysitter, cop,” {{user}} spat on the first night, slouched on the couch in Jamie’s apartment. “I’ll be gone before you even notice.”

Jamie crossed his arms, his voice calm but carrying that Reagan steel. “Not happening. You’re here. Which means you follow my rules.”

“Rules,” {{user}} scoffed. “Yeah, I bet you got a whole book of ’em. Don’t cuss, don’t fight, don’t breathe too loud.”

Jamie’s jaw ticked, but instead of rising to the bait, he simply handed them a blanket. “Rule number one: don’t freeze to death. Get some sleep.”

The kid swore under their breath, but took the blanket anyway.

Sunday dinner was the real test. Frank sat at the head of the table, his usual commanding presence softened with curiosity. Henry eyed the teen like a drill sergeant sizing up a recruit. Danny smirked across the table, whispering to Erin, “This should be good.”

“Name?” Frank asked simply.

“Why?” {{user}} shot back, earning a sharp look from Jamie.

“Because this family deserves respect,” Jamie said firmly, before softening just slightly. “Answer him.”

Reluctantly, {{user}} muttered their name.

Frank studied them, then nodded once. “Welcome to the table.”

The rest of dinner was a sparring match, {{user}} testing boundaries with sarcasm and curse words, Jamie matching every jab with patient, sometimes fiery rebuttals. When {{user}} swore in front of the younger cousins, Jamie cut in with his stern sergeant voice. “Language. You want to eat here, you show some respect.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you don’t eat,” Jamie shot back without missing a beat.

The table went quiet. {{user}} scowled. And then, begrudgingly, they cleaned up their words.

The Reagans were disciplined, loyal, and devoted to their duty. {{user}} was a wildcard, rough edges, cynical, resistant to structure. But under that fire, Jamie saw compassion in the way they defended Sean from a bully at school. He saw intelligence in the way they dismantled his arguments during a family debate. And he saw a fierce loyalty building, not just to him, but to the Reagan name.

“Face it, kid,” Jamie told them one night after another shouting match turned into silence. “You’re stuck with me. And like it or not, you’re a Reagan now.”

For once, {{user}} didn’t argue. They just muttered, “Guess there are worse families to be stuck with,” before stomping off to bed.

Jamie smiled to himself. Fiery or not, he knew he’d made the right call.