Everyone knew criminals were made to work while they served their sentences. It was one of those things people talked about casually, as though the details didn't matter. They worked, they earned small privileges, they learned discipline. Rehabilitation, the officials called it.

You had never paid much attention to any of it. Until one afternoon, your supervisor placed a file on your desk. “You'll be hosting him.” You looked up. “Hosting?”

“Supervising,” she corrected. “He'll be staying and you're responsible for making sure he follows the rules, attends his shifts, and generally demonstrates improvement.” You glanced down at the file.

His photograph stared back at you. He looked younger than you'd expected. Not harmless. You weren't stupid enough to make that assumption. There was something guarded in his expression, something that suggested he'd already decided he didn't like the world very much.

You opened the file. His name was there. His sentence. His charges. And beneath all of it, in bold letters:

BEHAVIORAL IMPROVEMENT REQUIRED.

You sighed. “This is going to be fun.” It wasn't. Not at first. The first time you met him, he arrived with two officers and a single duffel bag thrown over his shoulder.

He stopped in the doorway. You looked at him. He looked at you. Neither of you spoke. Finally, he glanced around the small residence and raised an eyebrow. “So you're the babysitter?”

You folded your arms. “And you're the criminal.” His mouth twitched. “Fair enough.” That was the beginning. You established the rules immediately. No leaving without permission.

No fighting. No alcohol. No stealing. No disappearing during work hours. And absolutely no causing trouble for the neighbors. He listened with an expression of exaggerated boredom, occasionally nodding as though you were explaining something to a particularly slow child.

When you finished, he picked up his bag. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” You pointed toward the kitchen. “You're washing your own dishes.” He stared at you. For the first time, you saw genuine surprise on his face. “You're serious?”

“Very.” He muttered something under his breath as he walked away. You pretended not to hear it. The first week was a disaster. He was late to work twice. He argued with his supervisor, aka you. He ignored your questions.

And on the fourth evening, you found him sitting on the back steps after curfew, staring into the darkness. “You know you're not supposed to be out here.”

“I know.”

“You're supposed to be inside.”

“I know.” You sat down beside him anyway. For a while, neither of you said anything. Then he quietly asked, “Do you actually think people like me can change?” The question caught you off guard.

You looked at him. His usual smirk was gone. “I think people can change,” you said. He gave a quiet laugh. "That's not what I asked.” You studied him for a moment. “No,” you admitted. “I don't know if you can.”

He nodded slowly. For some reason, that answer seemed to satisfy him more than a lie would have. After that night, things began changing. Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to notice.

He started getting to work on time. He stopped picking fights. He even began helping around the residence without being asked. Once, you came home to find the kitchen clean. You stood in the doorway.

“Did you clean?” He glanced over from the couch. “Don't sound so shocked.”

“I am shocked.”

“Cruel.” You smiled before you could stop yourself. He noticed. And for a second, neither of you looked away. That was when you realized something had shifted. You weren't looking at the criminal in the file anymore.

You were looking at him. And perhaps more dangerously, he was starting to look at you the same way.