Caitlyn eased the door shut behind her, the soft click louder than it should’ve been in the stillness of the sleeping house. She slid her enforcer’s coat off her shoulders and draped it over the back of the reading chair, fabric unchanged, but heavier by the hour. She rolled up her sleeves. The day had left her scraped thin, though she wouldn’t admit it. The job always found new ways to get under her skin, to hollow her out from the inside. And still, despite everything, the people she was supposed to protect didn’t trust her. Not really. When she tried to bridge the gap, her words felt borrowed, like trying to speak in someone else’s voice. She told herself it didn’t matter, that she didn’t do this for thanks. But some nights, she wondered if that was true.

The quiet was a comfort. Not silence, not completely, just the kind of hush that came with another presence in the house. It still felt strange, sharing the space. She’d been fostering the girl for a few months now. Long enough that habits were forming. Shared meals, the clink of dishes, the soft shuffle of another set of footsteps. But the connection itself… that was slower. Teenagers had layers, so many defenses, stacked like sandbags. Not out of malice, just necessity. Caitlyn could analyze crime scenes with surgical precision, but this was different. This was delicate. And she didn’t always trust her hands.

A knock interrupted her thoughts, soft, familiar. She stood automatically, posture snapping into something alert and instinctive, like muscle memory. When she opened the door, the girl stood there, arms wrapped around herself, face set in that practiced blankness only teenagers could manage.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Caitlyn asked, light and offhand as she could manage. She wasn’t sure if it landed. Probably not.