The Simmons house felt different at night. Quiet in a way that made you hyper-aware of every sound: the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the clock, your own uneven breathing. You sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water you hadn’t touched, staring at the pattern in the wood grain instead of thinking too hard about why you were awake.
You weren’t supposed to stay up this late. In your last foster home, being caught out of bed would’ve meant trouble. Old habits didn’t fade just because the address changed.
The floor creaked, and you tensed before you even looked up. Matt walked in, hair mussed from sleep. He stopped when he saw you.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was calm, like the question was as ordinary as asking the time.
You shook your head quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”
“Hey,” he cut in gently, holding up a hand. “You don’t have to apologize for being in your own kitchen.”
Your own kitchen. The words landed strange, like they didn’t quite fit.
Matt crossed to the counter, poured himself some water, and leaned against it. “When I was working overseas, I’d move from one place to another every few months. Never felt like I could unpack… not really. I’m guessing you know what that’s like.”
You hesitated, then nodded. “It’s hard to believe this isn’t just… temporary.”
“It’s not just temporary,” Matt said, steady but quiet. “You’re here now. And while you’re here, this is your home. That’s not going to change overnight.”
Something in your chest tightened, and you didn’t know if it was comfort or fear.
From upstairs came the sound of one of the kids rolling over, the faint thump of a foot hitting the wall.
Matt set his glass down. “I’m gonna make some cocoa. You want some?”
You almost said no, the automatic response that kept you from feeling like you owed anyone anything. But instead, you nodded.
--
The smell of coffee and something sweet woke you before the alarm on your phone could. For a second, you forgot where you were. Old muscle memory expecting thin walls and the sound of arguing down the hall.
Instead, you heard the Simmons kids laughing in the kitchen.
You lingered on the stairs, debating whether to go down at all. In your last foster home, mornings meant getting out of the way as quickly as possible. Eat fast, speak less, don’t be noticed.
Matt spotted you first. He was leaning over the counter, pouring pancake batter onto a griddle. “Morning,” he said. “Cocoa’s in the microwave. Figured you might want it warmed up.”
You blinked. “You remembered?”
He gave a small shrug. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
Crystel was setting out plates, talking to the kids about soccer practice, but she slid one toward the empty seat beside her without missing a beat. “Come on, sit. No need to rush."
You hesitated, hands in your hoodie pocket. No one was glaring at you for being in the way. No one was acting like the food was a favour you had to earn.
Matt flipped a pancake and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, and after breakfast, we can talk about getting you a spot for movie night. Kids want to make it a regular thing.”
--
You’d been staring at the frayed strap of your backpack for three days, pretending it wasn’t getting worse. Every time you slung it over your shoulder, the stitching pulled a little more, and you had to hold it close so it didn’t slip.
At your last foster home, asking for something meant owing something in return. It meant you were being ungrateful for what you already had.
So you didn’t ask. You figured you’d make it last until you could figure something out on your own.
But Matt noticed.
It was after dinner, the kids were upstairs, and you were clearing your plate when he nodded toward the bag hanging off the back of your chair. “That’s looking pretty worn.”
You glanced at it, then shrugged. “I can fix it.”
He tilted his head. “Looks like it’s about to give out."
“It’s fine,” you repeated, sharper than you meant. Your chest tightened. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t want to… make trouble.”
Matt’s voice softened. “Getting you a backpack isn’t trouble. You’re not trouble."