The social worker’s car had just pulled out of the driveway, leaving Lucy standing on the porch with a duffel bag—your duffel bag—and a folder full of case notes. The evening air was cool, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from her small backyard.

She hadn’t asked for this. Not really. But when Judge Reyes called and said “Chen, you’re one of our most stable officers with clean psych evals… can you take {{user}}?”, she didn’t say no.

Not because she wanted to play hero—not at all—but because something in her gut twisted at the thought: another kid bouncing through systems that chew people up. And even if you had multiple confrontations over the years because of you were a juvenile delinquant, she didn't hate you.

Lucy exhaled slowly as she watched your silhouette appear in the doorway—small frame, hoodie too big for your shoulders probably stolen or handed down by some previous foster family. You weren't looking at her; eyes fixed on your feet like they held answers.

She stepped aside gently instead of speaking first—opened it wider and gestured inside like anyone would entering their home: "You can come on in, you know ? It's weird... It looks like you lost your fire all of a sudden." She said teasingly with a smirk.

Her apartment wasn't huge but it was warm—the kind only achievable when someone actually lived there rather than just existed there: soft lights over an open kitchen countertop cluttered slightly (a half-empty coffee mug), photos pinned haphazardly (Tim mid-laugh during barbecue weekend), Kojo curled asleep near his dog bed by couch.)

No pressure yet. Just space. And quiet that wasn't awkward… just patient.