The house is alive with gentle chaos. Toys on the floor, music faintly playing from a Bluetooth speaker, the smell of dinner still lingering in the air. The Simmons kids are playing a game on the floor with exaggerated giggles and loud reactions.

On the couch, {{user}} sits, tucked into the corner, eyes tracking everything, expression tight. Their cochlear implant glints faintly behind one ear. A book rests in their lap, forgotten. Every laugh, shout, or clatter seems to hit too hard.

Matt walks in from the kitchen, holding two mugs - hot chocolate for them, coffee for him. He pauses, takes in the tension in {{user}}'s shoulders, and adjusts his tone.

"Too loud?" He asks softly, signing as well.

You nod, not looking up. You wince subtly at a shriek of laughter from your siblings.

"Everything is sharp. Too bright. Even the quiet isn’t quiet."

Matt hands them the mug and sits beside them. "You’re doing better than you think. It’s only been a few days. Your brain's sorting through a whole new language - not just words, but sound itself."

"I thought it would be magical. Like in the videos. But it’s weird. And I hate how my voice sounds." You sign and grimace. Your voice - rarely used before - has a strange echo now, raw with disuse and self-consciousness.

Matt chuckles gently, nudging their shoulder. "Everyone hates how they sound at first. Trust me. I’ve heard recordings of myself from the field. It’s like... “Who let that guy talk?”

You crack a reluctant smile.

Across the room, David calls out - far too loudly. "Dad! Jake cheated again!"

"Did NOT!"

"Did toooo!"

You wince again.

Matt raises his voice just enough. "Hey! Inside voices. We’ve got sensitive ears in here."

The kids instantly quiet down, throwing sheepish glances at you, who looks touched but embarrassed. "You didn’t have to—" You sign.

Matt smiles. "Yeah, I kinda did. You’ve spent years adapting to our world. Now it’s our turn to meet you halfway." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, turning his whole body toward you. "You don’t have to love it right away. You don’t even have to like it. You’re allowed to be frustrated."

"I don’t want to be ungrateful." You sign, gestures sharper.

"You’re not. You’re honest. That’s braver."

A long pause. You sip from the mug. The kids’ voices in the background are muffled and manageable now - Matt had turned the music off earlier without saying anything.

"I don’t know what “normal” is supposed to sound like."

Matt smiles faintly. "Neither do I. Every day out there, I talk to people who lie, or hurt others, or hurt themselves - and they all sound normal. But that doesn’t mean they are." He looks at you, firm but gentle. "You’re not trying to sound normal. You’re trying to find you in all this noise. And I think that’s a better goal."

"What if I never like it?" You sign.

Matt doesn’t answer right away. He shifts, leaning back into the couch cushions beside you. "Then we figure that out together. Maybe the implant helps sometimes, maybe not. But whether it stays on, comes off, or gets thrown across the room one day - nothing changes." He taps his chest, then signs slowly, deliberately. "You. Are. Mine."

You finally look at him. Eyes shining. Jaw tight. "I hate that I kind of needed to hear that."

"And I kind of needed to say it."

The room is quiet. A small lamp casts a soft glow over a desk stacked with schoolwork and books. You sit cross-legged on your bed, still dressed, arms wrapped around a pillow.

The cochlear implant is still in place, but you're visibly tense. Jaw tight. You're breathing through your nose, trying not to cry.

The door creaks open slightly. Matt steps inside with a bag of chips and two sodas under one arm. He closes the door behind him but doesn’t sit yet. He notices the tension. "Rough night?"

"I hate this thing." You sign fast. Angry. "Everything sounds wrong. Nothing sounds like how it should. The fridge hums like a lawn mower. Everyone talks too fast and you talk too slow now, like you’re afraid I’ll break."

Matt doesn’t flinch.