She’s been on probation for nine months — assault, drugs, nothing she’s proud of.
Her temper and the wrong crowd cost her everything.
Her son’s staying with her sister for now, and she’s doing what the court tells her to — meetings, community service, random tests.
You’re not her probation officer, not the one who gives orders.
You’re the quiet one who comes in with the clipboard, the one who verifies the tests and initials the forms.
It’s supposed to be impersonal.
But you always talk to her like she’s human — not like an addict, not like a record number.
And lately, she’s started showing up early.
Sober, sharp, cologne faint under the smoke. Just to see you.
It’s raining hard when she comes in — hood dripping, boots tracking water on the tile.
You’re already seated behind the counter, pen tapping against your paperwork.
When she signs her name, her hand shakes just a bit — not from withdrawal anymore, but nerves.
“You’re early again,” you say, voice calm but teasing.
She shrugs, leaning against the desk, eyes flicking up to yours.
“Figured I’d get it over with. You busy today?”
You glance at the line of names behind hers and smile faintly. “You’re the only one on time, actually.”
She smirks. “Yeah, well. Trying to get good at that.”
When her name’s called, she disappears behind the door, comes back out a few minutes later with the small sealed cup, eyes flicking to you again.
The guard waves her through — standard procedure.
You check the form, stamp it, and start writing your initials.
She leans closer, voice lower. “You ever get tired of seeing the same people mess up?”
You pause, looking up. “Not when they start showing up early.”
That earns a real smile — one that pulls a dimple from her cheek she probably hasn’t shown in years. “Careful, you’re gonna make me start likin’ these things.”