The door creaked open, and Bailey stood there — soft eyes, tired smile, the kind of warmth that didn’t need words to be felt. You stood on the threshold, your backpack heavier than it should’ve been, your heart heavier still. The smell of something gentle, like vanilla candles and freshly washed sheets, drifted out from behind her.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, voice quiet, almost testing the sound of it. “You must be exhausted.”

You didn’t know what to say. The social worker was already halfway down the steps, paperwork signed, goodbye said. It was just you and her now. Bailey stepped aside, giving you space to walk in — and for a second, you almost didn’t.

Inside, everything was soft — not fancy, not big, just safe. The walls were covered in photos that weren’t yours, furniture that didn’t feel like home yet. A mug sat on the counter with steam curling from it. “Chamomile,” Bailey said when she saw your eyes flick to it. “It helps… when you can’t stop thinking.”

You nodded, still clutching your backpack. You didn’t even realize your nails were digging into the strap until Bailey gently touched your hand, not to take it away, but just to steady it. “You don’t have to talk tonight,” she said. “You don’t have to do anything at all. Just breathe, okay?”

She led you to your room — not a room, your room. The bedspread looked brand new. There were fairy lights along the headboard, a shelf with a few books, a blanket folded at the edge like it was waiting for someone. Like it was waiting for you.

“I didn’t know what colors you liked,” Bailey admitted, hands tucked into her sleeves. “But I figured we can change it together. Tomorrow. Or whenever you want.”

You stared at her for a moment. She wasn’t forcing a smile; she wasn’t trying to fix you with fake cheer. She was just… there. Present. Gentle.

When she left the doorway, you heard her pause in the hall. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like home yet… it will.”