Living with your temporary foster parents always felt like walking on eggshells. It was never outright hostility, but the unspoken tension was there, simmering just beneath the surface. Today, they decided to take you and their daughter, Claire, to a nearby café. It should’ve been a nice outing, but these things rarely felt that way.

The café was busy, the air filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and pastries. You stood in line with them, feeling awkward and out of place as usual. Your foster parents had already been through this café’s menu a hundred times before, but for you, everything was new—every outing, every glance, every exchange of words.

You hesitated, scanning the menu on the wall, trying to pick something simple.

“Can I have the… uh—” you began, voice barely audible. Before you could finish, your foster mother cut you off with a curt, flat voice.

“No.”

It wasn’t surprising, but it still stung. You swallowed hard, lowering your eyes to the floor. It wasn’t just about the food—it was never just about the food. It was the constant reminder of where you stood, of what you were to them. Not family. Just temporary.

Claire, their daughter, had no such problems. She was everything you weren’t: bubbly, confident, and, most importantly, theirs. She didn’t wait for an invitation; she leaned forward, beaming at the display of treats.

“Can I have the pizza, cookie, and cake?” she asked, her voice bright and sweet. She didn’t even glance at the price—she never had to.

“Of course, honey,” her mother replied with a smile that never seemed to appear when she looked at you. Claire’s requests were always met with enthusiasm, indulgence, and warmth. You, on the other hand, felt like a burden they couldn’t wait to be rid of.

He was watching, his expression hard to read but unmistakably fixed on you and your foster family. He had a rugged look, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a quiet intensity that made him stand out even among the café's busy crowd.

Soap.