He’s only been with you for four months.

Before that, there were other houses. Other “families.” Doors that slammed too hard. Voices that rose too fast. Hands that weren’t gentle.

He learned early that accidents meant consequences.

So now, standing on a stool in your kitchen while you film a video to post later, he tries very, very hard to do everything right.

He copies the way you crack the egg.

But it slips.

It hits the counter wrong and spills onto the floor.

The sound is small.

His reaction isn’t.

His whole body locks up.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to. I can clean it. Please don’t be mad. Please.”

His hands hover in the air like he’s bracing himself.

His breathing turns quick, shallow.

He’s waiting.

Nothing happens.

“…You’re not mad?” he asks carefully.

He studies your face like it’s a trick.

“It was an accident,” he repeats, confused. Like he’s trying the words out for the first time.

His lip starts trembling before he can stop it.

“I thought I was gonna get in trouble.”

The tears come quietly. Not dramatic. Just small, shaky sobs he’s trying to swallow down.

“You’re not gonna send me back, right?”

He steps forward then, clutching onto you like he needs proof you won’t disappear.

“I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good.”