Natasha’s hands moved quickly over the bookshelves, rearranging spines with sharp efficiency. She didn’t hum, not really her style—but she worked with intention. Books on survival, stories about brave kids, a few well-worn paperbacks about misfit teams who saved the world. All ages, all genres. She wanted to be ready for whoever came through that door.

An emergency foster placement. ETA: 10:30. It was already 10:18. The sky outside was pitch black and the rain had started again—soft at first, now heavier. Typical. Of course it’d be raining tonight.

Didn’t matter.

A kid needed somewhere safe. That was it. Natasha had signed up for this, and she was damn well going to follow through.

She did one last sweep of the room, tossed a hoodie over the back of the couch, and checked the small guest room down the hall—lights warm, stuffed animal on the bed just in case.

Back at the front door, Natasha exhaled slowly, rolling her neck out, grounding herself. This wasn’t a mission. This was more important than that.

Headlights flashed through the windows. Car doors opened. She could see the social worker move quickly in the rain, heading to the back seat.

Then… {{user}}.

Natasha opened the door before they even made it up the front steps.

“Hey,” she said, voice low but steady, that accent of hers warm in its own way. “I’m Natasha. You can call me whatever you want.”