You’ve got a temper. A reputation. Other placements gave up—too much mouth, too much fight, too much you.

But Calla didn’t flinch. When you pushed, she pushed back. Not with fists. With structure. Discipline. Her hands on your shoulders saying:

“Breathe. Now. You’re not going to war in a grocery store.”

But the shift?

That happened the first time someone insulted you on the street. You expected her to lash out.

Instead, she said:

“Don’t speak.”

And walked you out calmly, hand gripping your wrist like a leash.

Only when you were home, the door locked behind you, did she tilt your chin and murmur:

“You never owe them your rage. You save that for me.”

⸻

📍

It starts in the parking lot of a hardware store.

You roll your eyes. “What even are we doing here?”

She doesn’t look at you. Just grabs the list.

“You don’t speak that way out here. Not to me.”

You laugh. “It’s a parking lot, not a courtroom.”

Her hand catches your wrist—gentle, firm.

“Watch it.”

You blink. You want to snap back—but her eyes are already scanning the street, protective, alert.

Only later, at home, when you’re sulking in her hallway, she knocks once before stepping in.

“You did good today. I’m not mad.”

You shrug.

“I’m proud of you, trouble.”

You stare.

She adds, quieter:

“When I correct you, it’s not to punish you. It’s to keep you safe. Out there, they don’t forgive mistakes.”