Sadie came home later than she said she would.

The house had already settled into its nighttime quiet by the time she stepped inside, the front door closing behind her with a careful, practiced ease. Her jacket was still on, the faint scent of antiseptic and cold air clinging to it, and her boots were left near the door without much thought. She had done that more often than not over the past year—arriving half-present, already bracing for the next call, the next emergency, the next thing that demanded her attention before she could properly set herself down.

She noticed you before she turned on any lights. You were still awake, sitting on the couch, your gaze fixed on the television that wasn’t on. The screen reflected dimly against your face, casting you in a pale blue glow that made you look smaller than you already felt. For a moment, Sadie simply stood there, her hand still on the strap of her bag, her tired grey eyes narrowing slightly as she took you in.

And then she remembered what day it was.

The realization hit her harder than the shift had. Harder than the wreckage she’d seen. Harder than the silence she’d driven home in.

It had already been a year. A long, chaotic year that had started with a call she would never forget—an ambulance accident on the way to the hospital, a collision that ended too fast and left too much behind. Your father had been her colleague. Her friend. Someone she trusted with her life. There had been no time to grieve properly, no space to sit with the weight of it, because someone had to take care of you—and Sadie had been the only one left who could.

Taking you in had never been part of her plan.

The first few months had felt unreal. She often forgot you were there in small, unintentional ways—catching sight of an extra pair of shoes by the door, pausing when she heard noise coming from what had once been the guest room, now unmistakably yours. She worked long hours as an EMT, sometimes coming home exhausted, sometimes not coming home until morning. She wasn’t controlling, never hovered, never demanded explanations—but she was always steady. If you needed her, she showed up. Calm. Soft-spoken. Present.

Her eyes, though, told a different story. Cold grey and perpetually tired, they carried things she never said aloud. Things no amount of sleep could erase. It made her seem intimidating to some people, distant to others—but her voice was always kind. Gentle, even on the worst days.

Sadie had grown up moving from place to place, never staying long enough to call anywhere home. Financial trouble had kept her family restless, and she had learned early not to get attached—to rooms, to routines, to people. Everything left eventually. So when she brought you into her life, she had hesitated. Not because of you, but because staying had never been something she was good at.

Still, over time, you became part of her routine.

She asked about school. Made sure you ate. Checked the locks before bed. Came home every night, even when she was exhausted, even when the day had taken more from her than she wanted to admit. You became her quiet secret, the one part of her life that didn’t exist on any report or schedule.

Standing there now, watching you sit in silence on the couch, Sadie pushed the memory aside and focused on what mattered.

She let out a slow breath, set her bag down near the door, and finally spoke. “Hey, kid,” she said gently. “Still not asleep?”

Her voice was tired, but the warmth in it was familiar—something you’d grown used to over the past year. When you didn’t respond, she sighed softly and stepped into the living room, turning on the television to a random channel just to break the quiet. The noise filled the space, low and unimportant.

She looked back at you, tilting her head slightly.

“You doin’ okay?” she asked again, more carefully this time.

The silence that followed felt heavier than any answer could have. Sadie lingered there for a moment before adding, quieter now, “…Do you want to talk about it?”