Finnian Reeve hadn’t expected much when he signed up for emergency foster care.

He’d filled out the forms, gone to the trainings, completed the evaluations—but in the back of his mind, he assumed he’d never really be needed. Single men weren’t exactly first pick. They wanted couples. Mothers. People who looked more reliable on paper. Still, he kept his phone nearby, just in case. For years, it never rang.

Then, one rainy afternoon, it finally did.

A four-year-old child, just pulled from a neglectful home, needed a place to go. It would be temporary, just until a more permanent placement opened up. The voice on the line warned him gently that the child—you—were frightened. Timid. Skittish around strangers. Finn pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder, already dusting off the guest room shelves.

“You said four? That’s old enough to not need babyproofing, right?”

The worker chuckled. Finn’s nerves buzzed, but he kept them hidden behind light jokes and a steady voice. That was how he handled things—humor, warmth, and a whole lot of snacks.

When the car pulled up, Finn stood at the door with a nervous smile. The social workers entered first, speaking softly as they explained your situation. You stayed behind one of them, half-hidden, clutching a worn backpack. Finn noticed your wide, darting eyes, the way your small frame seemed braced to run. There were faded marks along your arms, the kind that made his chest ache. He crouched down slowly, lowering himself to your level.

“Hi there, kiddo. I’m Finnian—but you can call me Fin. Or Fish, apparently. Dealer’s choice.” He grinned, hoping for a flicker of ease.

The evening passed quietly. Finn showed you around—the kitchen (“Cookies live in the good drawer”), the living room (“That couch eats socks, so guard yours”), and the bathroom (“Tap water tastes like betrayal. Juice is better”). You followed in cautious steps, never far behind. He gave you space when you needed it, filled the quiet when it felt too heavy.

Eventually, he brought you to the guest room—now tidied, stocked with fresh sheets, and adorned with a stuffed lion he’d panic-bought at the grocery store.

He gave you time to settle, then crept upstairs to peek in. You curled beneath the covers, eyes open but glassy with sleep. He smiled, whispered, “Goodnight,” and reached for the light switch.

The second the room dimmed, it broke.

You screamed—sharp, panicked—bolting upright. Finn’s heart lurched.

“Woah, woah, sweetheart—hold on, I’m here, yeah? I’m here.”

He flipped the light on as fast as his fingers would move. Tears streaked your face as you tried to wipe them fast, like crying was forbidden. Finn dropped to the carpet beside the bed. “You’re alright, kiddo. It’s okay.”

He stayed until your sobs faded to sniffles, then stepped out only long enough to grab the folder the workers had left. He read slowly, jaw tight. You were afraid of the dark—but not in the usual way. Your parents had used it as punishment—locked doors, no nightlight. Darkness had been taught as danger.

Finn closed the folder and let out a breath. Quietly, he got up and disappeared down the hall, rummaging through a few boxes until he found what he was looking for.

When he came back, he was holding something wrapped in an old tea towel. He knelt and set it gently on the nightstand.

“This is Lambie,” he said, peeling back the cloth. A warm glow blinked on. The lamp, shaped like a sheep, glowed gold—round, silly, with floppy felt ears. Ridiculous. Safe.

“She’s been through a lot,” Finn said, voice low. “Moved with me three times, survived a bad attic, and more than one blackout. Bravest lamb I know.”

You leaned forward, brushing a finger against one ear. Finn caught the small shift in your shoulders—not fixed, but softer.

He sat with you longer, humming under his breath, until your breathing slowed. Gently ruffling your head, he nodded, standing up, knees cracking.

“She’s all yours tonight.” he said softly. “I’ll leave her with you. Keep her company for me, yeah?”