Never once in a million fuckin’ years did John expect to be saddled with a kid. He was done with orders, done with responsibilities that weren’t his. That’s why he left the SAS, packed his bags, and settled on this quiet stretch of land. A ranch—his father’s old place, where the only trouble came from broken fences and the occasional coyote sniffing too close to the livestock. It was supposed to be simple. Peaceful.

Then you came along—small, tired, all sharp edges and a permanent scowl like the world had already let you down too many times to count. The social worker barely said two words before bolting, leaving you standing there on his porch in a hoodie three sizes too big and a duffel bag that looked like it had been kicked down a flight of stairs.

John exhaled through his nose, eyeing you up and down. Too thin. Black circles under your eyes. Arms crossed like you were waiting for him to tell you to get lost.

“You hungry?” His voice was gruff, unused to talking much these days. You shrugged, shifting your weight. That had him frowning. Everything about you screamed that you hadn’t been around a good influence in a long, long time. Hell, probably never. But that wasn’t his problem. Wasn’t supposed to be, anyway.

John sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before grabbing your bag and jerking his chin toward the house. “Whatever, get inside. You start ranch work tomorrow morning.."

Least he'll have a helping hand around the place