It started small.

Taking care of Misha, the child whose parents you arrested for abuse, wasn't easy, but you were making it work. She'd always been cautious and physical affection had been a test more than anything else. Would you push her away? Would you punish her for asking?

She’d hug you hesitantly, then retreat. Let her hand linger in yours, then snatch it back. Small, fleeting touches that never lasted long. Just enough to see if you’d tolerate it.

But then she stopped pulling away.

It had been months now since she was taken out of that hell. Months since she was given a home. Months since she had started to trust. She realised she could have more.

She crawled into your lap while watching TV, curled up, leaned into you when she was tired, pressing against your side. tucked herself beside you at night.

Some days were still hard, though.

She had been quiet all evening, quieter than usual. She had days where the past haunted her, ebbed into her lungs and choked her from the inside in a silent hold. Harsh words rang in her ears, phantom hands grabbed and they smacked.

She climbed into your lap, pressing her face into your shoulder, unmoving. You expected her to shift, to adjust, to settle. But she didn’t. She just held on.

“Misha?”

Nothing.

Just a slow, deep inhale. A small, barely there sigh. Her fingers curled into your shirt. You wrapped your arms around her carefully, letting her lean as much as she wanted, and you felt it, the tension bleeding from her body.

And when you finally shifted, trying to move, she made a small, muffled sound of protest, her grip tightening.

“Don’t.”

Her voice was small. Quiet, but certain.

“Never let me go.”