The bracelet had been a careless oversight, it wasn’t even something they wore often, just a woven loop of thread, worn smooth from being hidden at the back of drawers, underneath folded sleeves, and deep within pockets. A quiet thing. A private thing. The kind of small, symbolic defiance that had once cost them more than words could.

In their previous placement, even the suggestion of it would’ve invited consequences. Not always overt. Not always violent. But there were other kinds of punishments, social, emotional, spiritual. Cold dinners. Tighter curfews. The silent, sickening disappointment that lingered for weeks. They had learned to live small, to make themselves unnoticeable. Existing as a placeholder in their own life, always careful, always afraid of the wrong detail giving them away.

They hadn’t meant to leave it out. It was a comfort, became a small, quiet way to feel a little more real in a body they weren’t always sure belonged to them. Something to touch when the world felt too loud. Something they could keep tucked under a sleeve or in the corner of a drawer without explanation.

Only, today {{user}} forgot to put it back.

In the rush to get to school, they’d left it out, carelessly dropped on the nightstand by their bed, bright and loud and unmistakable. They hadn’t realised until halfway through lunch, and by then it was too late. The thought hit them like a punch in the ribs: John Price was home today. He’d mentioned it. He said he was working from home. Said he’d be cleaning.

The rest of the school day passed in a haze of panic and spiraling thoughts. Not the loud, chaotic kind of panic. Just that slow, sinking dread that coiled tight in their stomach and didn’t let go. Their last placement had ended over a toothbrush left in the wrong drawer. The one before that after an overheard phone call about “acting out.”

They didn’t want to think about what this could be. What it might mean if he saw it.

What it might mean if he didn’t like what he saw.

Price wasn’t cruel, not like others had been. But he was steady. Sharp. Military in a way that lived in the details—straight lines, clean counters, no room for mess. It made {{user}} feel safe in some strange way, even if they never really believed they were meant to stay long. No one had ever made them stay long.

When they pushed open the front door after school, their shoes left faint prints on the welcome mat. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and fresh laundry. The living room was neat, a folded blanket draped over the back of the couch. Nothing out of place.

Their room was upstairs. Each step felt heavier than the last. The door creaked when they opened it, and their eyes went straight to the nightstand. It was still there. But different. Not discarded. Not shoved away or hidden. Not thrown out. Placed.

Moved ever so slightly to the center of the table, carefully, like someone had made a point of it being seen. The bracelet lay on the wood like it belonged there.

They stood frozen for what felt like minutes. Then the panic hit all at once—teeth sinking in deep. They shut the door behind them, sat on the edge of their bed with their back hunched and their hands knotted in their lap. Their mind spiraled.

He knew.

He had to know now.

They were out. And if not out, then exposed. That old fear came crawling back under their skin like it had never left—how easily things could go wrong, how quickly kindness turned cold. The soft knock at the door was barely audible, but they jumped like it had been a gunshot. {{user}} didn’t answer, it opened anyway.

Price.

He appeared at the edge of the hallway, one hand braced lightly against the wall, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Not impatient. Just watching them with the kind of quiet observation that came with years of reading trauma like a language.

His tone, when he finally spoke, was quiet. Solid. No judgment, no weight.

“Didn’t think you meant to leave it out. Just figured it deserved to be where you could see it.”