Chapter Text
It was late—well past the hour when the Swansea household usually settled into its comforting rhythm of quiet. Upstairs, his wife likely lay nestled under the covers, her soft snores harmonizing with the faint hum of the baby monitor. The grandkids were out cold in their beds, their little chests rising and falling steadily as dreams kept them company. The old house breathed in time with its sleeping occupants; its creaks and sighs were part of the natural melody of night.
Downstairs, Swansea was wide awake. He didn’t often end his nights on the sagging couch, but tonight he found himself there, nursing the last swig of a beer, staring at the muted TV screen. A tired crime drama rerun flickered in the dark, its washed-out characters mumbling half-heartedly through the plot. It wasn’t the show he was watching, though. His eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, a blank spot on the wall pulling him deeper into thoughts he didn’t want.
The crash had changed things for all of them.
He leaned back against the couch cushions, a grunt escaping as his knees creaked with the motion. The beer bottle met the coffee table with a dull clink, its weight strangely final as it sunk into the condensation where it sat. He rubbed at his temples, but it didn’t help. The stillness of the room used to soothe him after long days. Now it felt suffocating, the silence amplifying memories he wished would stay buried.
The Pony Express wasn’t supposed to be anything remarkable. Routine cargo runs to out-of-the-way places, just another cog in the corporate machine. But routine had shattered when the engines failed—when systems collapsed one by one and the planet’s surface loomed closer with every heartbeat. Somehow, they’d all survived. The crew had walked away alive. But the experience had burned itself into them, leaving scars in places too deep to see—aside from Curly.
God, Curly.
A month later, he still hasn’t been discharged from the hospital. But he was alive. That had to count for something.
Swansea’s gaze shifted to the empty bottle. He didn’t talk about it. Not to his wife, not to his crew, and certainly not to himself. When she asked, he gave her the usual line—“Everything’s fine.” A lie so practiced it almost felt true, even as the nightmares told a different story. Fine. Sure. Fine enough to keep the fire, the screaming metal, and the sheer helplessness bottled up tight.
A sound from outside cut through the silence. Swansea froze. A car door slammed shut—sharp and abrupt, startling against the calm of the night. He frowned, leaning forward to listen. Nobody came around this late. His neighborhood wasn’t the kind of place where people showed up unannounced at two in the morning.
The clock on the wall confirmed it: 2:07 AM.
The knock came next, sudden and urgent. Swansea jerked upright, his gut instinctively tightening. It wasn’t the polite kind of knock—more like someone pounding the door with desperation.
“What the hell?” he muttered, pulling himself to his feet. His knees groaned in protest, but he ignored them as he shuffled to the door. His dog stirred somewhere upstairs but didn’t follow, only offering a soft whine before settling again. Swansea peered through the peephole, his irritation still brewing—until he saw who it was.
Daisuke.
The kid looked like hell. His mop of messy hair was even more disheveled than usual, sticking up in every direction. His eyes were rimmed red, his face pale, his hoodie and jeans rumpled like he’d been sleeping in them—or hadn’t slept at all. A bag hung off his shoulder, its strap digging into his jacket, but it wasn’t the bag or his appearance that hit Swansea the hardest.
It was his expression.
Daisuke wasn’t smiling. The kid always smiled, even when he didn’t mean it, even when it was forced or half-assed. But now his face was stripped bare, his guard completely down, and what Swansea saw there set something uneasy stirring in his chest.
He yanked the door open, the November air biting instantly at his skin. “Kid?” he said, his voice low and rough. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Daisuke’s gaze dropped to his shoes, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of his own words threatened to crush him. He shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting at his sides, and for a moment, it seemed like he might not speak at all. When he finally did, his voice was small, hesitant, barely above a whisper.
“Hey, uh, Mr. Swansea,” He swallowed, his words catching in his throat before he forced them out. “I—I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
The words were quiet, barely audible over the wind whistling through the crack in the doorframe. Simple. Unassuming. But they struck Swansea like a gut punch, leaving a hollow ache in their wake.
For a moment, he said nothing. The usual smart remark sat on the tip of his tongue, but it wouldn’t come out. He stared at the kid, taking in the disheveled clothes, the tremble in his hands, the way he wouldn’t lift his head.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
And it twisted in Swansea’s chest like a dull knife.
“...You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to stand here guessing all night?” He asked finally, his voice quieter than usual.
Daisuke flinched, his head snapping up like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. His words came in a rush, tripping over each other in their urgency to get out. “I—I’m sorry for showing up like this, Mr. Swansea,” Daisuke stammered, his voice trembling and uneven, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t know where else to go, and I just—can I—can I stay here? Just for tonight, I swear, I’ll figure something out tomorrow—”
“Hey, whoa, slow down,” Swansea interrupted, his tone sharp but not unkind as he raised a hand to stop the flood of words. He squinted at Daisuke, taking in the kid’s hunched posture and the dark circles under his eyes. “You’re talking like you just ran ten miles and forgot how to breathe. Start over.”
Daisuke blinked at him, clearly flustered, and Swansea exhaled hard, stepping aside to hold the door open wider. The bite of the cold night air slipped past him, cutting through the tense moment like a knife. “Just get inside before you catch your death,” he said, jerking his head toward the room.
“You’re not making any damn sense out there,” Swansea added gruffly as Daisuke hesitated. “Come on, kid. Move.”
For a moment, Daisuke hesitated, standing frozen in the doorway. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, he stepped inside, dragging the damp November chill with him. Water dripped from his shoes, forming tiny puddles on the hardwood floor. Swansea’s eyes flicked to the mess instinctively, his usual annoyance bubbling up, but he swallowed it down. There were bigger things to worry about.
Shutting the door behind him, Swansea locked it and leaned against it for a moment, letting the warmth of the house seep back into him. He turned to see Daisuke standing in the middle of the room, clutching the strap of his bag like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground. His shoulders were stiff, his head bowed, and he looked like he might shatter if someone so much as breathed wrong.
The sight stirred something in Swansea, a mix of protectiveness and unease that he didn’t know how to place. This wasn’t like the kid. Daisuke was annoying, sure, always buzzing around the engine room, talking a mile a minute about things Swansea barely cared to understand. But that was him—energetic, irrepressible. This Daisuke was a ghost.
“You hungry or something?” Swansea asked, his tone gruffer than intended. “I can make toast.”
Daisuke shook his head, his arms tightening around himself. “No, thanks.” His voice was small, barely more than a whisper.
There was silence for a moment, thick and uncomfortable. Swansea shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t good at this—at feelings, or whatever the hell this was. But he couldn’t ignore the way Daisuke looked like he might crumble into pieces if left standing too long.
“Alright,” Swansea muttered, gesturing to the couch. “Sit down before you fall over.”
Daisuke hesitated again, his grip on the bag tightening. Then he moved, shuffling to the couch like his legs could barely carry him. When he sank onto the cushions, it was with the weight of someone far older, far more tired than a kid his age had any right to be.
Swansea followed, easing into his usual spot with a grunt. He glanced at Daisuke, who was staring at his lap, his fists clenched so tightly around the bag’s strap that his knuckles were white. Swansea opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” Daisuke murmured again, his voice cracking under the strain. His head dipped lower, shoulders curling inward like he was trying to disappear. When he spoke again, the words wavered, barely audible. “I tried to sleep in my car, but it’s cold, and I only grabbed one blanket on my way out.”
“Jesus Christ,” Swansea muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand down his face as he fought to keep his voice steady. He could feel the heat rising in his throat, a familiar, bitter taste of frustration mixed with something deeper—something protective. He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “Start from the beginning,” he said, his usual gruffness softened but no less firm. “What the hell happened?”
Daisuke’s hands lifted to his face, rubbing at his eyes before dragging down his cheeks. When they finally dropped to his sides, they hung there, limp and exhausted. He didn’t look up as he began, his words halting and slow, like each syllable had to be forced out. “My mom—she said she couldn’t stand to look at me anymore.”
The quiet admission hung in the air, sharp and raw. Swansea barely caught the words, but when he did, his chest tightened, anger sparking deep and hot. Daisuke blinked rapidly, biting down hard on his trembling lip, clearly fighting to keep it together.
“We had this fight. A bad one. And she... she kicked me out.”
Swansea’s brows knitted together, his frown deepening as he processed the words. “Kicked you out? What for?”
Daisuke hesitated, his fingers twitching against his knees. “Because I didn’t get a reference. From the internship,” he said finally, his voice cracking on the last word. His shoulders hunched further, folding in on himself. “She said it was my fault I didn’t stand out.”
Swansea’s mouth tightened into a thin line, the statement like a punch to the gut. He snorted before he could stop himself, the sound sharp and bitter. “The internship where the goddamn ship crashed?”
Daisuke flinched hard, his entire body recoiling as if Swansea had physically struck him. The reaction hit harder than Swansea expected, a pang of guilt slicing through his frustration.
“Sorry,” Swansea muttered, shifting uncomfortably as he scratched the back of his neck. His gaze flicked away for a moment before returning to Daisuke. “Go on.”
Daisuke took a shaky breath, his hands curling into fists on his knees. “She said I should’ve impressed you guys more. Should’ve done something to stand out.” His words quickened, each one landing harder than the last, his voice growing strained. “And then she brought up my dad. She said he’d be disappointed in me.”
The room fell deathly quiet. Swansea’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to stay calm. He exhaled slowly, his breath heavy with barely contained fury. “Your dad—” He stopped himself, the words catching in his throat. His voice dropped, low and cold. “She had no damn right to say that.”
Daisuke shook his head quickly, his voice rising in desperation. “I just—I couldn’t stay there after that, okay? I couldn’t.” His breathing hitched, and he gripped his knees tighter, his knuckles stark white.
Swansea watched him, the kid barely holding himself together, his whole body a tense, trembling knot of emotion. Finally, Swansea leaned forward, his voice steady but laced with a hard edge. “Listen to me, Daisuke. Your dad isn’t here to say it himself, so I’m gonna say it for him: he wouldn’t be disappointed. Not in you.”
Daisuke’s head jerked up, his eyes wide and glassy, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“Yeah,” Swansea continued, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. “You survived a goddamn shipwreck, kid. You did your best in a situation no one could’ve prepared for. And if your mom can’t see that, that’s on her. Not you.”
Daisuke swallowed hard, his throat working around the lump of emotion threatening to spill over. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, just stared at Swansea like he was trying to find something to hold on to.
His voice cracked when he spoke again. “It doesn’t matter. I still—” He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut, as if trying to will himself into silence.
“That’s bullshit,” Swansea interrupted, his tone harsh but not unkind.
Daisuke’s head jerked up, his wide eyes blinking in surprise.
“She’s wrong,” Swansea continued, his tone firm and unyielding. “It does matter. She was scared, angry, whatever. Doesn’t make it right. And you? You’re still standing. That’s more than enough.”
Daisuke laughed, but it was hollow and bitter—the kind of laugh that didn’t carry any joy. “Yeah. Standing here on your doorstep at two in the morning. Real success story.”
Swansea shook his head slowly, his expression hardening. “You think success is about what? A reference? A piece of paper saying you did good? That doesn’t mean shit. You want to know what matters? You came through. You kept your head when everything went sideways. That’s what matters.”
The words hit harder than Daisuke expected, and his hands tightened on his knees again, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans. “I tried so hard, Mr. Swansea. I really did. But she doesn’t care. She just—she thinks I’m a failure.”
Swansea felt something crack open inside him, something he’d spent years locking away. He saw his own kids in Daisuke—the doubt, the frustration, the desperate need for someone, anyone, to see them, to believe in them. He inhaled deeply, choosing his words carefully.
“You’re not a failure, kid,” he said, the gruffness in his voice tempered by an unfamiliar softness. “You’re a pain in the ass, sure, but you’re not a failure.”
Daisuke blinked rapidly, his hands flying up to rub at his face as he sniffled, his voice muffled. “God, I’m sorry,” he muttered, his words breaking apart like shards of glass. “I didn’t mean to—shit, I’m such a mess."
“Stop.” Swansea’s voice cut through sharply, but not unkindly. Daisuke froze mid-motion, his hands dropping slightly as he stared at Swansea, wide-eyed.
“You don’t apologize for feeling something,” Swansea said firmly, his eyes locking onto Daisuke’s. “Not to me. Not to anyone. You hear me?”
Daisuke nodded quickly, his movements jerky, his face flushed with embarrassment. He sniffed again, dragging the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes as he fought to steady himself.
Swansea let the silence stretch for a beat, his fingers steepled in front of him as he stared at the floor. He wasn’t good at this—never had been. Comforting people wasn’t in his wheelhouse, not with his kids, not with his wife, and certainly not with the young man sitting in his living room. But here he was, with this damn kid sitting on his couch looking like the world had chewed him up and spit him out. And Swansea couldn’t just let it slide.
“Look,” Swansea started, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your mom—she’s probably just... stressed out or something. People say stupid things when they’re wound up.”
Daisuke huffed out a bitter, humorless laugh, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Swansea scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable but pushing forward. “Look, kid,” he said, his tone softening as the words came out. “Your mom’s wrong. You hear me? The crash wasn’t your fault. None of that shit was your fault.”
Daisuke sniffed sharply, lifting his head just enough to meet Swansea’s gaze. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears. “You really think so?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, raw and tentative.
“I don’t say shit I don’t mean, kid,” Swansea said firmly, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. His tone was gruff, but there was no mistaking the honesty behind it. “You worked your ass off out there, even when you didn’t know what the hell you were doing half the time. And the rest of us noticed, whether you believe it or not.”
Daisuke blinked rapidly, his lips parting as he tried to steady his breathing. His shoulders trembled slightly, and Swansea could see the kid struggling not to crumble under the weight of it all. He sighed, reaching out to clap a broad, firm hand on Daisuke’s shoulder.
“You’re not a failure, Daisuke,” Swansea said, his voice rough but kind. “You’ve got guts. More than most people your age, that’s for damn sure.”
Daisuke’s shoulders shook harder, and for a moment Swansea thought the kid was going to break down entirely. His lips quivered, and he swallowed hard before nodding quickly, almost frantically, as if agreeing with Swansea might hold him together. “Thanks, Mr. Swansea,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Swansea muttered, waving him off as he leaned back. The moment felt heavy and unsteady, and he didn’t know how to navigate it. Comforting wasn’t his strong suit. Never had been. But something about the kid made him feel like he couldn’t just let it drop.
After a moment of silence, Swansea cleared his throat. “You want something to drink?” he asked gruffly, his tone casual, almost dismissive. “Water? Soda? Beer’s off the table, by the way.”
Daisuke opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, his stomach let out a low, unmistakable rumble. His face flushed crimson, and he glanced down, his expression sheepish. "Uh, water would be great,” he mumbled, barely audible.
Swansea smirked faintly. “Water, huh? Sure that’s all you want? Sounds like your stomach’s trying to start a fight.”
Daisuke laughed softly, a weak, embarrassed sound, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I… yeah. I guess I’m a little hungry,” he admitted, his voice tinged with reluctant honesty. “I didn’t eat much today.”
“Didn’t eat much, or didn’t eat at all?” Swansea asked, already pushing himself up from the couch with a grunt. His knees popped in protest as he straightened. He didn’t wait for Daisuke to answer, waving a hand dismissively as he shuffled toward the kitchen. “Doesn’t matter. Sit tight. I’ll grab you something.”
Daisuke blinked, watching him go with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. “You don’t have to—”
“Pipe down,” Swansea called over his shoulder, voice rough but steady. “I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”
The kitchen light flickered on, casting a warm, buttery glow that softened the hard edges of the room. Swansea moved with a deliberate slowness, the weariness in his bones evident in every motion. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet, the familiar clink of it against the counter oddly comforting in the quiet. The faucet groaned before releasing a steady stream of water, the sound filling the silence as he filled the glass and set it aside.
The fridge door creaked open, bathing Swansea in cold light. His eyes scanned the shelves, passing over wilted lettuce, half-empty condiments, and the remnants of meals that no one had finished. His hand hovered over a container of pasta for a moment, the lid slightly askew, revealing the twisted shapes of cold noodles inside. He grabbed it, popping it into the microwave, the hum breaking the stillness as he leaned against the counter and scrubbed a hand down his face.
He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. The kid didn’t need pasta, didn’t need a glass of water, or some lame TV show. He needed answers, comfort, something Swansea wasn’t sure he could give. But seeing Daisuke like this—cold, tired, hollow-eyed—it stirred something in him. A frustration that tangled with protectiveness, an urge to shield him from the weight of whatever had already dragged him down so far.
The microwave beeped, sharp and final. Swansea pulled the container out, the heat warming his hands through the thin plastic. He stirred the pasta absently with a fork, steam rising in lazy curls, then grabbed a napkin and the glass of water. Balancing it all with practiced ease, he carried everything back into the dimly lit living room.
“Here,” he said, setting the food and water on the battered coffee table in front of Daisuke. “Eat. And don’t argue with me about it.”
Daisuke didn’t move at first, just stared at the food like it was some strange artifact he didn’t quite recognize. His face was pale, lips faintly blue at the edges, and his eyes—half-lidded, unfocused—looked distant, like he wasn’t entirely there. “Thanks,” he muttered after a moment, voice hoarse and thick like he was trying to swallow gravel.
Swansea didn’t say anything, just flopped onto the couch beside him with a sigh, reaching for the remote. The TV blinked to life, the volume low, playing a late-night crime drama full of dark shadows and murmured dialogue. It wasn’t anything special, but the sound filled the air, softening the oppressive silence.
Daisuke picked up the fork slowly, mechanically. He took a small bite, chewing as if each movement was an effort. His shoulders were hunched, tension coiled tight in his frame, but after a few bites, the rigid lines of his body eased, if only slightly. He didn’t speak again, just ate in silence, the quiet punctuated by the clink of the fork against the container.
After a while, Swansea glanced over, noting the tremor in Daisuke’s hand as he lifted the fork, the way his eyelids drooped, fighting a losing battle against exhaustion. His movements were sluggish, mechanical, as if he were moving through thick fog. Swansea’s voice softened, the usual gruffness giving way to something gentler. “You wanna put something else on? Something you like?”
No response.
Daisuke blinked slowly, his gaze distant, unfocused, as if the question hadn’t even registered. Swansea waited a moment, then leaned forward, his voice firmer but still patient. “Hey, kid. You with me?”
Daisuke startled, his head jerking slightly as he turned, glassy eyes finally meeting Swansea’s. He blinked again, clearly disoriented, and a faint flush crept up his neck. “I—I just wanna finish eating,” he mumbled, the words thick and slurred with weariness. He shivered visibly, pulling his hoodie tighter around him. “I’m cold.”
Swansea studied him for a long moment, taking in the pale complexion, the hollowed cheeks, the dark circles beneath his eyes that seemed carved into his face. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You’re worn out,” he muttered, more to himself than to Daisuke, then rubbed a hand over his face, thinking. “How about a shower? Might warm you up. I’ll grab you something dry to wear.”
Daisuke shook his head, the motion weak and half-hearted, barely more than a twitch. “No, thank you,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “Just wanna sleep.”
Swansea sighed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “All right,” he said after a beat, voice low and calm. “But you’re done for now. Let me take the plate.”
Daisuke blinked again, this time more aware, the flush deepening as realization set in. He looked down at his plate, like he’d forgotten it was even there, and then back up at Swansea, embarrassment flickering across his face. “I didn’t mean to zone out,” he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. “Sorry.”
Swansea waved a hand, brushing the apology aside. “Don’t apologize. You’re running on fumes, kid. It happens. Just take it easy.”
For a moment, Daisuke hesitated, looking like he wanted to argue. But instead, he nodded, his shoulders sagging as he let out a quiet sigh. “Okay.”
Swansea exhaled through his nose, leaning back into the couch with resignation. He watched Daisuke for a moment, studying the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. “There’s a guest room upstairs,” he offered. “Might be more comfortable.”
Daisuke’s head turned slightly, but his gaze stayed distant. “Can I just stay on the couch?” he whispered.
Swansea frowned, then glanced at the worn cushions. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, though his tone had softened. He didn’t push. “I’ll get you some blankets.”
He stood and walked to the hall, the floor creaking beneath him. When he returned, his arms were full—blankets draped over one arm, a pillow tucked under the other. Daisuke was already stretched out on the couch, his shoes still on, legs curled up beneath him. He looked up when Swansea entered, eyes glassy and tired.
As Swansea set the blankets on the armrest, Daisuke struggled to sit up, his fingers fumbling at the laces of his shoes. “I’m getting the floor wet,” he mumbled, voice thick with fatigue and apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Cut it out,” Swansea interrupted, his voice firm but not harsh. “It’s just a floor. Don’t worry about it.”
Daisuke pulled his shoes off, setting them neatly beside the couch, still looking guilty. “Sorry,” he said again, quieter this time.
Swansea sighed, tossing the pillow at him, which Daisuke caught with a tired, grateful smile. “Quit apologizing,” Swansea muttered, settling back onto the couch with a grunt. “Here, take this.”
Daisuke pulled the blankets over himself, curling beneath them like he was trying to disappear. “Thanks, Mr. Swansea,” he murmured, voice barely audible.
Swansea glanced at him, brow furrowed. “What did I just say? Drop the 'Mr.'; I’m not your boss anymore. Just Swansea’s fine.”
Daisuke blinked at him, confused for a moment, then nodded, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Okay… Swansea.”
The room fell into a companionable silence, broken only by the soft rustle of blankets and the faint hum of the fridge. Swansea picked up the remote, flicking through channels until he landed on a late-night crime drama. The volume was low, the dialogue barely a murmur in the background.
Daisuke shifted, tucking the blanket tighter around himself. “You snore?” Swansea asked, glancing over with a grin.
Daisuke blinked, confused for a second, then shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, if you do, I’m kicking you out,” Swansea said, the teasing in his voice softening the words.
A soft thump on the floor made both of them look down. A border collie padded over from the stairs, tail wagging slowly, his paws tapping lightly against the hardwood. He sniffed at Daisuke, his wet nose brushing the boy’s hand, before hopping up onto the couch. The dog circled twice before settling beside him, curling up snugly against Daisuke’s side, his presence a solid, reassuring weight.
Daisuke’s brows lifted slightly, his lips parting in mild surprise. He hesitated, then reached out to scratch behind the dog’s ears, his fingers tentative. “What’s his name?”
“Springfield,” Swansea replied from across the room, his tone gruff but with a faint edge of pride.
Daisuke glanced up, his fingers pausing briefly in the dog’s soft fur. “Springfield,” he repeated softly, testing the name as a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The border collie leaned into his hand, a deep, contented huff escaping him. “That’s a good name for a good boy.”
“Damn right it is,” Swansea said, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, watching them. “He likes you. Guess he’s got decent taste.”
Daisuke’s hand continued its slow, steady rhythm through Springfield’s fur, his movements deliberate and grounding. The faintest chuckle escaped him, quiet but genuine, as the dog’s tail thumped against the couch. “He’s... really something.”
“He’s a lifesaver,” Swansea said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Literally. Pulled me out of some tight spots more times than I can count. You treat him right, and he’ll do the same for you.”
Daisuke nodded, his exhaustion evident but momentarily eclipsed by the comfort of the moment. “Thank you, Springfield,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re a good boy.”
Springfield responded with a warm swipe of his tongue across Daisuke’s cheek, drawing a startled laugh—a quiet sound, almost disbelieving but undeniably real. Swansea smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
“Figures,” Swansea muttered, pushing off the wall to step closer. “Gets along with you better than most people. Guess you’ve got something in common.”
Daisuke looked up, a flicker of gratitude in his tired eyes, but he didn’t reply. Instead, his body sagged into the couch, a yawn overtaking him as his hand fell still against Springfield’s side. His breathing evened out moments later, the pull of sleep impossible to resist.
Swansea watched as Springfield shifted closer, the dog curling protectively against Daisuke like he knew the boy needed it. For a long moment, Swansea just stood there, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable. Finally, he dropped into the chair by the door, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to shake the storm building in his chest. Frustration churned hot in his gut, joined by anger and something softer that he didn’t want to name.
His thoughts turned bitterly toward Daisuke’s mother. That woman—if you could even call her that. She should have been here; she should have been the one to drag her son out of the hellhole they’d barely escaped from. But no, she was too wrapped up in her own disappointment to even see him for what he was—a kid who’d been through hell, who’d fought like hell, and was still here, still standing. Barely, but standing.
Swansea let out a humorless laugh under his breath, shaking his head. Disappointed. She’d used that word. The memory hit him like a fresh punch, making his fists clamp against his thighs. After what they went through on that goddamn ship—the terror, the chaos, the endless fight to survive—how dare she? How dare she act like Daisuke hadn’t done enough?
“He’s tougher than you’ll ever be,” Swansea muttered to the empty room, his voice low and rough. His gaze flicked to Daisuke’s sleeping form, his features peaceful for the first time in what felt like weeks. “You don’t deserve him.”
The dog shifted, resting its head on Daisuke’s chest as if to echo the sentiment. Swansea leaned back, crossing his arms, his expression hardening as resolve settled in his gut.
No, she didn’t deserve him. She’d had her chance and blown it—spectacularly. Swansea had made his decision back on that burning, chaotic ship, with death snapping at their heels and desperation tightening its grip. Daisuke wasn’t going back to her. Not now, not ever.
Swansea didn’t care what it took—he’d sort out the logistics tomorrow. Custody, guardianship, or whatever hoops he had to jump through, he’d jump. Tonight, all that mattered was this moment, this room. And nothing—not her disappointment, not the resentment she’d carved into Daisuke’s heart, not even the ghosts of that damned ship—was getting through.
Not while Swansea was still breathing.