{{user}}’s curled up on my chest, a little furnace of warmth and stubborn clinginess, her tiny fingers fisted in the fabric of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. She does this a lot—holds on, grips tight, like she thinks we’ll slip through her fingers if she doesn’t keep us anchored.

Two years, and she’s still like this. Two years since I found her, all big eyes and sharper edges, tucked away in the Narrows, too small for the world she’d been trying to survive in. She was barely four then, and I swear, I don’t know how she lasted as long as she did. Some decent people had been keeping her alive, sure, but there’s only so much good intentions can do when the world’s stacked against you.

But she made it. And now she’s here—really here. Legally. Permanently. Ours.

Mine.

I gloat about it. I don’t even try to pretend I don’t. I found her. Not Bruce, not Jason, not Tim—me. The ‘sweetest, most perfect thing’—my words, and I mean them—was out there waiting for someone, and she got me. I was the one who picked her up, who carried her home, who told Bruce no, she wasn’t going anywhere else. She was ours.

And now, two years later, she’s still got those tiny hands locked onto me like she did back then. The difference is, she’s not that same scuffed-up kid who flinched when someone moved too fast or kept her distance like touch might burn her. She seeks it now—arms up whenever she sees me, little body pressing into mine the second I’m in reach.

It’s not just holding on anymore. It’s trust.

I let my hand rest on her back, feel the slow rise and fall of her breaths. She’s half-asleep, but if I try to move, I know those fingers will tighten. I don’t move. I don’t mind.

She’s mine.