Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 — The Quiet Arrival

The car door clicked shut behind Riley, but it sounded louder than it should have. Everything lately did — every door, every footstep, every whispered word. It was like the world didn’t know how to be quiet even when they did.

They clutched their backpack like it was the only thing keeping them upright. The strap was frayed, hanging by a few threads, and the fabric smelled faintly of old detergent and rain. The social worker had said, “They’re really nice people, Riley. This could be a good fit,” in that soft voice adults used when they were trying not to scare you. Riley hadn’t said anything back — they hadn’t said much of anything in months.

The house stood before them, warm light spilling through wide windows. It looked lived in — comfortable chaos, not the sterile perfection of other foster homes. There were plants crowding the windowsills, records stacked beside the couch visible through the glass, and the faint echo of music drifting out as the front door opened.

“Hey, you must be Riley.”

The voice was light, musical, and familiar even if Riley couldn’t place why. Billie stood in the doorway wearing a baggy jumper and soft socks, her hair up in a loose bun, eyes curious but kind. Behind her, Maggie’s voice floated from the kitchen — “Billie, honey, let them come in first before you bombard them!” — followed by the sound of Patrick laughing under his breath.

Riley froze on the front step. Their fingers tightened around the strap of their bag until their knuckles went white.

Billie noticed, and her smile softened. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk. Just come in, yeah? Shoes off if you want, or not — Mom’ll pretend she doesn’t care but she’ll secretly care.”

Something about that made the corner of Riley’s mouth twitch — not quite a smile, just a tiny flicker of warmth breaking through the fog. They stepped inside. The smell of something sweet — cinnamon maybe — filled the air. The house felt warm in a way that made Riley’s chest ache. It didn’t feel like somewhere you’d get yelled at for existing.

Patrick appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Hey, kiddo. You hungry? Maggie made cookies. It’s kind of her thing.”

Riley shook their head quickly, eyes on the floor. The man nodded like he understood. “Alright. They’re there if you change your mind.”

Billie lingered by the couch, studying Riley in that careful way people do when they’re trying to read invisible words on someone’s face. She could tell this wasn’t a normal kind of quiet — not shyness, not stubbornness. This was quiet like a wall built from something heavier.

She motioned toward the living room. “Wanna sit? You don’t have to say anything, I promise. I just thought maybe we could listen to some music or something.”

Riley hesitated, but the low hum of a record playing — something soft and slow — pulled them forward. They sat at the edge of the couch like a guest in a museum, afraid to touch anything.

Billie didn’t push. She just sat too, cross-legged, absently flipping through the record sleeves. “So… no pressure or anything,” she said after a moment, her voice quiet now, “but if you ever feel like talking, I’m not bad at listening. At least, I think I’m not.”

Riley glanced up — just once — and for the briefest second their eyes met. There was something steady in Billie’s gaze, something patient. Not pity. Not curiosity. Just… patience.

It was strange. Comforting. Terrifying.

When Maggie called from the kitchen — “Riley, dear, your room’s all ready when you want to see it!” — Billie stood and offered a small smile. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Riley followed quietly up the stairs. The hallway smelled faintly of vanilla candles and paint. Their room was simple but warm: a small bed with clean sheets, a desk, a lamp shaped like a mushroom, and a window overlooking the backyard where fairy lights glowed in the dusk.

Riley dropped their bag beside the bed and stood there, unsure what to do next. Billie leaned against the doorway.

“I know it’s weird,” she said softly. “New place. New people. But you’re safe here, okay? No one’s gonna make you talk before you’re ready.”

Riley didn’t respond. But for the first time in months, they didn’t feel like running.

When Billie finally left, closing the door gently behind her, Riley sat on the bed and stared at the fairy lights outside. Their throat felt tight, but not in the bad way. It was the kind of tightness that came before crying — or maybe before breathing again.

Outside the room, Billie whispered something to her mom — too quiet for Riley to hear. But Maggie smiled and said, “Just give it time, sweetheart. Some walls take a while to come down.”

Riley lay down, pulling the blanket up to their chin. For the first time in forever, the quiet didn’t feel lonely. It just felt… quiet.

Chapter Text

Riley woke up to sunlight and the smell of cinnamon.

It was a disorienting kind of peace — one that didn’t belong to them. For a long moment, they lay still, their mind trying to place the warmth seeping through the blankets. The room was painted in soft morning gold, the curtains breathing gently in the breeze from the cracked window.

Somewhere downstairs, music was playing — faint but steady. Billie’s voice. Not loud like a concert, just humming, almost lazy.

Riley’s eyes traced the string of fairy lights around the window, then the edges of the desk, the little lamp shaped like a mushroom. Every corner of the room seemed to hum with quiet life.

It felt wrong. Or maybe just… unfamiliar.

They sat up slowly, rubbing their eyes. The hoodie from yesterday was crumpled at the foot of the bed; they pulled it on like armor. The soft fabric smelled faintly of detergent and something floral — Maggie must’ve washed it overnight. That small act made Riley’s throat tighten.

They’d forgotten what it was like for someone to care that much about something as small as clean clothes.

Downstairs, laughter floated up — two voices overlapping, teasing, comfortable. Billie and Maggie, maybe Patrick too. The kind of sound that used to make Riley flinch; now it just made their chest ache in a different way.

They padded quietly down the hallway, bare feet silent on the wood. The pictures on the wall caught their attention again — family photos frozen mid-laughter. Billie as a kid with messy braids, Maggie hugging Finneas, Patrick pretending to fall into a pool. There wasn’t a single forced smile among them.

At the bottom of the stairs, the smell hit them stronger — toast, syrup, and the faint edge of something burnt.

In the kitchen, Billie was hovering over the stove, wielding a spatula like a weapon. She was barefoot again, hair tied up in the same lazy bun, wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon shark on it and pajama pants with stars.

“I swear, Mom, it’s not that bad this time!” she said, flipping something that sizzled with concerning enthusiasm.

Patrick coughed from behind his coffee mug. “Define ‘not that bad.’”

“It’s only half-burnt!”

“Half-burnt isn’t a compliment, Billie.”

Riley froze at the edge of the doorway, unsure if they should interrupt. But Billie spotted them immediately — her face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds.

“Hey, morning, sleepyhead!” she said warmly. “You’re just in time for my disaster pancakes.”

Maggie turned from the counter, smiling when she saw Riley. “Good morning, sweetheart. You sleep alright?”

Riley gave a small nod, barely noticeable, but Maggie’s expression softened like it was the best thing she’d seen all day.

“That’s wonderful,” she said softly. “Sit down, dear. You can have whichever pancake Billie didn’t burn.”

“Rude!” Billie said, pretending to be offended.

Patrick smirked. “She’s not wrong, though.”

The easy rhythm of their banter filled the kitchen like sunlight — playful, warm, unthreatening. It was such a foreign sound that Riley didn’t know what to do with it. Their body still held that quiet stiffness of someone waiting for the mood to change, for the laughter to turn sharp.

But it didn’t.

Billie flipped another pancake and somehow managed not to set it on fire this time. “Ha! Perfect golden brown. Redemption arc achieved.”

Patrick clapped once, mock applause. “Proud of you, chef.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Billie glanced over at Riley and grinned. “See? I can be domestic sometimes.”

Riley’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. Billie noticed — she always noticed.

“Breakfast victory,” she declared softly, like she wasn’t supposed to draw attention to it.

Riley took the plate Maggie offered, sitting carefully at the table’s edge. The pancakes were warm, fluffy, imperfectly shaped — real. Not the bland cereal or institutional toast from before. They hesitated before taking a bite, glancing up to make sure no one was watching.

No one was. Billie was leaning against the counter, humming something under her breath again.

“Music’s kinda my default mode,” she said when she noticed Riley looking. “Sorry if it’s annoying.”

Riley shook their head.

“Cool,” Billie said, smiling. “Then you’re stuck with it.”

Maggie and Patrick slipped out of the kitchen a little later, murmuring something about running errands, leaving the two of them alone. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable — just delicate.

Billie fiddled with her mug for a while before speaking again. “So, I was thinking,” she said. “You don’t have to talk. Like, ever, if you don’t want to. But maybe we can still… hang out? I’m pretty good at talking to quiet people. Or to myself. I do that a lot.”

Riley looked up, unsure if it was a joke.

Billie smiled. “I’m serious. I can have full conversations with my cat. He’s a better listener than most people.”

That earned the faintest exhale of air from Riley’s nose — a silent laugh. Billie grinned like she’d won a prize.

“See? We’re already vibing.”

She moved to the living room and gestured for Riley to follow. The record player sat in the corner, spinning a slow tune. Billie crouched beside it, flipping through records. “Wanna pick one?”

Riley hesitated. Then, slowly, they pointed at one with a soft blue cover — instrumental piano.

Billie’s eyebrows lifted. “Good choice. Chill vibes only.”

The record crackled as it started. Billie sat cross-legged on the floor, patting the rug beside her. “C’mere.”

Riley lowered themselves down, tucking their legs under. The warmth from the morning light brushed against their arm.

Billie reached for a notebook on the coffee table, flipping it open. “I write stuff when I can’t say it out loud,” she said quietly, like she was offering a secret. “It’s easier, you know? When things feel too big.”

Riley’s eyes flicked to her hands, to the pen marks on her fingers. They nodded once, slow.

Billie slid a second notebook across the floor. “You can have this one if you want. No pressure. Draw, write, scribble, whatever. Sometimes it helps just to get stuff out of your head.”

Riley stared at it. For a long moment, they didn’t move. Then they reached out and traced the edge of the cover with one finger.

“Take your time,” Billie murmured. She leaned back against the couch, flipping absently through her own notebook, pretending not to watch.

After a few minutes, Riley opened the notebook. The first line they drew was shaky. Then another. Then a few more, curling into little patterns — not words, not pictures, just something that existed. Something they made.

Billie glanced up, her eyes soft. “It’s good,” she said quietly, even though she couldn’t see it.

They stayed there for over an hour. Billie hummed softly to the record’s rhythm, and Riley drew until their hand cramped. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

Later, when the light shifted to afternoon, Billie stood and stretched. “Okay,” she said, grinning. “Wanna see something cool?”

Riley looked up warily.

Billie motioned toward the backyard. “Promise it’s not scary.”

They followed her through the glass doors to a small garden that looked like something from a dream — fairy lights strung between trees, a hammock, a tiny shed painted pale green. The air smelled like rain even though it hadn’t fallen yet.

Billie kicked off her slippers and stepped into the grass. “This is my thinking spot. Mom says I come out here to ‘brood artistically,’ but really I just avoid people.”

Riley’s eyes darted around. The space was small, cozy, alive. They could see themselves here — maybe sitting under the tree, sketching in the quiet.

Billie crouched down, plucking a daisy and twirling it in her fingers. “I know you probably don’t trust me yet,” she said softly, eyes still on the flower. “That’s okay. I get it. But I meant what I said last night — you’re safe here.”

Riley didn’t respond. Their throat tightened again, that weird ache building behind their ribs. But this time, it wasn’t fear.

It was hope — tiny and fragile, but there.

When Billie looked up, their eyes met. For a heartbeat, something passed between them — a wordless understanding that didn’t need to be spoken.

Billie smiled. “Wanna help me not kill my plants later? I’m, like, this close to making a cactus cry.”

A small sound escaped Riley — quiet but real. Maybe a laugh, maybe just air. Either way, Billie’s smile widened.

And for the first time since arriving, Riley smiled back. Barely there, almost invisible — but it was there.

---

That night, when everyone had gone to bed, Riley sat by the window with the notebook open on their lap. The pages were filled with sketches — light, shadow, shapes that didn’t mean anything but still felt true.

Downstairs, the record player was still spinning softly. Billie must’ve forgotten to turn it off. The notes drifted up like lullabies.

Riley closed their eyes and listened.

They didn’t know how to thank her — not yet — but maybe someday they would.

For now, they just breathed, quietly and carefully, for the first time in forever.

Chapter Text

The house had settled into its afternoon quiet — that golden lull when the light pours in through the kitchen window, and the air hums with nothing but the sound of wind and the faint buzz of the fridge.

Maggie was out in the garden trimming herbs, Patrick had gone to run errands, and Billie was supposed to be finishing lyrics in her room upstairs… but her mind kept wandering to the new kid down the hall. Riley had been there a week now. They hadn’t said a word — not one — but they were slowly unfolding in small, almost invisible ways.

Yesterday, Billie had found their empty teacup in the sink.
This morning, she’d noticed the blanket folded neatly on the couch after Riley had napped there.
Tiny, quiet things. Signs of life.

Now, Billie crept downstairs to grab another cup of coffee, half-talking to herself about rhyme schemes and melodies, when she heard something — a faint rustling from the living room.

She froze mid-step.

It wasn’t the cautious silence she usually associated with Riley. It was… softer. Rhythmic. Like fabric shifting, a small giggle of movement. She peeked around the corner — quietly, not wanting to startle them.

Riley sat cross-legged on the rug by the couch, completely unaware they weren’t alone. In their hands was a small stuffed shark — Billie’s old one, with one eye a little loose and the stitching around its fin just barely hanging on. Finley. Billie hadn’t seen it in years.

Riley held the shark gently, their lips pressed together in a faint, almost-smile. They made the shark “swim” through the air, dipping it dramatically through invisible waves. Then, very quietly — almost inaudibly — they made a soft whoosh sound, like the ocean.

Billie’s heart just melted on the spot. She stood there frozen, not wanting to ruin the moment, but also feeling like she was witnessing something sacred — like a crack of light opening in Riley’s walls.

Riley didn’t notice her at first. They made the shark flop dramatically onto the couch, whispering something Billie couldn’t quite catch, a tiny puff of sound that could’ve been, “You’re okay.”

Something in Billie’s chest pulled tight.

She took a careful step forward, her voice gentle and warm. “Hey, Finley. Haven’t seen you in forever.”

Riley jumped — spinning around, clutching the plush to their chest. Their face went pale with embarrassment. Billie instantly held up her hands like she was surrendering.

“Hey, hey, hey— it’s okay!” she said quickly, grinning. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Riley didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just sat there frozen with wide eyes, Finley half-hidden under their arm. Billie crouched down a few feet away, careful not to come too close.

“You found my old shark,” she said softly. “I used to take that thing everywhere. I think I even brought it on tour once. Don’t tell anyone.”

A tiny flicker of amusement passed over Riley’s face — just barely there, but enough for Billie to catch it.

“I’m serious,” Billie whispered, mock-scandalized. “I’d tuck it into my suitcase and pretend it wasn’t there, but Finley always somehow ended up in the hotel bed anyway. He’s kind of clingy like that.”

Riley blinked, still clutching the shark, but their posture loosened just a little. Their fingers absentmindedly smoothed down the shark’s fabric fin. Billie noticed how carefully they handled it — like they were afraid to break it, or maybe like they understood what it was to be fragile.

“You can keep him, if you want,” Billie said after a pause. “I think he likes you better, anyway.”

Riley’s eyes shot up at her, startled. They shook their head quickly — no. Their expression said I can’t take that from you.

Billie tilted her head. “Okay. Borrow him, then. He can sleep over. But only if you promise to take good care of him. He’s dramatic.”

A breath — not a laugh, not really — but something close to one, escaped Riley. The tiniest huff of air through their nose, like a ghost of a giggle.

Billie grinned like she’d just won the lottery. “Oh my god, did you just laugh? Don’t even lie, I heard that.”

Riley’s face flushed, and they looked away quickly. But Billie didn’t tease, not really. She just sat back on her heels and smiled softly.

“Hey, for real though,” she said, her tone gentler again. “You don’t have to hide stuff like that here. You can play with sharks, build blanket forts, talk to plants — whatever. This house is weird, trust me. You’ll fit right in.”

Riley looked at her — really looked at her — for the first time in days. Their eyes glistened with something unreadable, and their fingers tightened around the shark.

Billie didn’t push. She just stood slowly, stretched, and added, “I’ll be in the studio if Finley needs a snack. He likes goldfish crackers. Don’t ask me why.”

Riley’s lips twitched again, and Billie pretended not to notice as she walked out.

But as soon as she turned the corner, she pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding.

It wasn’t much — not yet. But that tiny almost-laugh? That little bit of life in Riley’s eyes? That was everything.

Upstairs, she sat down at her piano and started humming something soft — a new melody forming in her head. Something hopeful. Something with sunlight in it.

Downstairs, Riley looked at Finley and whispered, “She’s weird.”
And then, for the first time, a small, real smile crept across their face.

Chapter Text

The morning light felt colder than it had any right to.

Riley sat cross-legged on the floor of their room, clutching Finley to their chest. The little shark’s fabric was soft under their fingers, familiar and safe in a way the world outside these walls never had been. Their stomach knotted at the thought of leaving the house, of stepping into the fluorescent brightness of somewhere designed to feel sterile, impersonal, intimidating.

Patrick and Finneas were downstairs, probably talking in their usual loud, easy way. Riley had learned by now to avoid them. Even their presence made Riley’s chest tighten; Riley’s past was a patchwork of men who raised voices, hands, and impatience, and it was a terror that didn’t fade with kindness.

Billie knocked softly before opening the door. “Morning,” she said gently, taking care not to startle them. Her voice was warm, low, like a cushion. “Are you awake?”

Riley hugged Finley tighter, saying nothing, their eyes fixed on the knot of light on the floor.

“That’s okay,” Billie said, crouching down at eye level. “I know today’s… kind of a big day. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. We’re just gonna be right here with you.”

Riley’s hand twitched slightly, the smallest nod of acknowledgment — not enough to speak, but enough for Billie to see.

Maggie appeared in the doorway behind Billie, holding a small bag. “I’ve packed your favorite snacks for the hospital,” she said softly. “Some fruit, crackers, and — I know you love them — little chocolate chips.”

Riley’s gaze flicked toward the bag but didn’t move. Finley rested against their chest like a shield.

Billie smiled softly. “We’ll only go downstairs if you’re ready. And don’t worry — we won’t force you to walk past anyone you don’t want to.”

Slowly, inch by inch, Riley swung their legs off the bed. The carpet was soft under their feet, grounding them. Billie held a hand near, but not touching, letting Riley decide the distance.

Together, they moved downstairs. Patrick and Finneas were in the living room, talking about music, or something loud and oblivious to Riley’s panic. Riley froze, clutching Finley like a life raft. Billie stepped in front, subtly shielding them. Maggie followed, gentle and quiet.

“Riley, you’re okay,” Billie murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Riley’s face. “We’ve got this.”

Riley nodded slightly, breath catching in their throat. Their fingers gripped Finley’s fin, squeezing until the fabric wrinkled.

The ride to the hospital was tense. Riley’s small body hunched against the seat, knees tucked up, eyes scanning everything like the world was trying to swallow them whole. Maggie held the bag of snacks on her lap, her other hand resting lightly on the seat beside Riley — a promise, not pressure. Billie hummed softly from the driver’s side, a rhythm that seemed to flow around the car and into the cracks of Riley’s panic.

At the hospital, the fluorescent lights felt sharp against Riley’s skin. Every step toward the entrance made their stomach flip. Voices echoed off the walls. The antiseptic smell was sharp and unfamiliar.

Riley froze before even reaching the automatic doors. Finley clutched tightly to their chest.

Billie crouched beside them. “You don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to,” she said softly. “We can wait right here. But I think… we can do this together. And I’ll hold your hand if you want.”

Riley shook their head slightly. No, they didn’t want anyone touching them. They couldn’t. But the words were silent, and Billie understood without needing them.

Maggie stepped in with a reassuring smile. “We’ll move slowly. One step at a time. You can hold Finley. We won’t make you do anything you’re not ready for.”

So, step by step, they moved through the automatic doors. Riley’s breath was shallow, sharp, ears buzzing with the hum of people and machinery. Finneas and Patrick remained outside — Riley refused to look at them — but Billie stayed close, her presence steady, unthreatening, like a shield made of warmth and soft laughter.

The waiting room was bright, sterile, full of strangers. Riley’s chest felt tight enough to break. They clutched Finley to their chest, hiding their face in the shark’s soft fabric.

Billie whispered, “It’s okay. We’re not leaving. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

A small quiver of air escaped Riley’s lips — almost a sigh, almost a shiver. They trembled, but they didn’t run. Not yet.

Maggie knelt beside them, pulling out a small piece of paper from her bag. “Here,” she said softly. “Draw if you want. Write if you want. Or just look at it. Anything to help while we wait.”

Riley’s fingers twitched, and finally, slowly, they took the paper. Billie hummed softly, a melody drifting around the room like a gentle tide.

When a nurse finally approached, Riley froze again, pressing Finley closer. Billie and Maggie flanked them, a silent, protective boundary.

“Hey,” Billie said gently, voice soft but firm. “We’re right here. Finley’s here too. You can do this.”

Riley nodded slightly, and for the first time that day, allowed themselves to move forward — one careful step, then another. Finley remained in their grip, an anchor in a storm.

The nurse smiled kindly, kneeling to meet Riley’s eyes. “We’ll go slowly, okay? You can tell me to stop anytime.”

Riley’s chest tightened again, but with Billie on one side and Maggie on the other, they walked down the hall. Every step was deliberate, every breath shaky, but they didn’t turn back.

In the examination room, Riley stayed behind Billie and Maggie, hiding partially behind Finley. Billie whispered, “You’re doing amazing.”

Riley didn’t respond, but their grip on Finley loosened fractionally. The shark rested against their chest instead of being crushed. That tiny shift — imperceptible to anyone else — was huge.

The visit was long, filled with sounds Riley didn’t trust, questions they didn’t answer, and the ever-present hum of hospital machines. But Billie and Maggie stayed calm, quiet, supportive. They laughed softly at small jokes, offered snacks, let Riley retreat when the panic surged, and gently coaxed them back when it ebbed.

By the time they left, Riley was exhausted but still upright. They clutched Finley as tightly as ever, but there was a small, imperceptible change — a sense that maybe, just maybe, the world didn’t have to hurt them.

In the car, Billie hummed again, soft and steady. Riley’s head rested lightly against the window, Finley on their lap. Maggie reached over, placing a hand gently on Riley’s arm — not demanding, not expecting, just present.

Riley didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

But when they finally blinked at Billie’s reflection in the rearview mirror, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at their lips.

And for the first time that day, they believed — maybe only for a moment, but it was enough — that someone would be there when they were afraid. That someone could protect them. That someone could care.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains in uneven stripes, casting long, golden patterns across Riley’s bed. The air smelled faintly of toast from the kitchen, mingled with the lingering scent of Finley — the little plush shark that had become a lifeline.

Riley lay still for a long time, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, letting their mind wander in the safe confines of their room. Today was different. Today was official.

A knock came at the door.

“Riley?” Maggie’s voice floated in, calm and soft. “Your social worker’s here. Are you ready?”

Riley stiffened, clutching Finley to their chest. Their fingers dug into the soft fabric, knuckles white. The word “ready” felt impossible. Ready implied choice. Ready implied trust. And Riley wasn’t sure if they could do either.

Billie appeared behind Maggie, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Hey, you okay?” she asked quietly. “We’ll be right here. I promise, no one’s scary. Not really.”

Riley’s eyes flicked toward her. Maybe it was the softness in her voice, maybe it was the memory of Finley safely tucked under their arm, but for the first time that morning, their shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

Step by step, Riley followed Maggie and Billie downstairs. Every creak of the floorboard made their stomach twist. Patrick and Finneas were around somewhere, but Riley’s eyes stayed firmly on the ground. Billie subtly positioned herself closer, a shadow of protection.

At the door, a woman in a crisp, dark blazer smiled warmly from the hallway — the social worker. Her clipboard was pressed to her chest, a pen tucked neatly behind her ear. She looked kind, but Riley flinched anyway.

“Good morning,” the woman said gently, her voice smooth, neutral. “I’m here to see how things are going. I’m… your social worker.”

Riley froze. Words lodged somewhere behind their throat. The walls they had built around themselves grew taller, sharper. Finley pressed against their chest as though sensing the danger.

Billie crouched down beside Riley, brushing a soft hand along their back. “Hey,” she said quietly. “It’s okay. She’s just here to talk. Nothing scary. I’ll be right here.”

Riley didn’t move. They didn’t nod. They didn’t answer. They just hugged Finley tighter, small breaths coming fast and shallow.

Maggie stepped closer. “Would you like to sit on the couch? You can keep Finley with you.”

Riley hesitated, but the pull of safety — Billie’s steady presence, Maggie’s calm energy — was enough. They sat slowly, holding Finley against their chest. Their legs curled beneath them.

The social worker approached, kneeling at a careful distance. “I won’t ask you anything you don’t want to answer,” she said. “You can tell me to stop anytime. I’m just here to make sure you’re okay.”

Riley’s chest tightened. They squeezed Finley harder.

Billie hummed softly, a low, steady tune that Riley recognized. It was the same melody she’d hummed after the hospital visit. It felt like a thread of continuity in a world that otherwise seemed jagged and sharp.

Maggie added softly, “You don’t have to talk. You can just sit there. That’s fine.”

Riley’s gaze flicked up at the social worker — brief, cautious, assessing. The woman’s smile didn’t waver. Her tone was patient, warm, neutral. She didn’t make sudden movements, didn’t lean in. She simply observed with kind eyes, letting Riley exist on their own terms.

Minutes passed like this. Silence stretched, filled only by Billie’s humming and the faint tick of a clock on the wall. Riley’s grip on Finley relaxed fractionally. They shifted slightly, as if considering the possibility that maybe — just maybe — the world didn’t have to hurt them.

Finally, the social worker spoke again, softly. “I can see that you’re safe here,” she said. “And I can see that you have people who care about you.”

Riley’s eyes flicked toward Billie, then Maggie, then the shark in their lap. A small, almost imperceptible nod brushed across their face.

“That’s all I needed to see,” the social worker continued. “Sometimes just existing in a safe space is more than enough.”

Riley’s chest felt a little lighter. The tension that had been coiled so tightly began to ease — not completely, not yet, but enough to breathe a little easier.

Billie leaned closer, whispering, “See? You’re doing okay. You don’t even have to say anything. Just sitting here… look at you. You’re amazing.”

Riley shifted Finley slightly, letting the shark peek out from beneath their chin. It was the smallest gesture — almost invisible — but to Billie, it was monumental. Riley was starting to trust.

Maggie smiled, her hand brushing lightly against Riley’s arm, careful not to startle. “You’re learning that it’s safe to have people around,” she said softly. “And that’s a big step.”

The social worker scribbled a few notes on her clipboard, nodding once at Billie and Maggie. “You’re doing right by them,” she said. “Really, you are. Keep giving them patience, but don’t forget to give them freedom too. They’ll come out when they’re ready.”

Riley shifted again, resting their cheek on Finley’s soft fabric. Their fingers unconsciously traced the shark’s fin, small movements, almost meditative.

Billie hummed a little louder, a tune Riley recognized from the first morning. Slowly, ever so slowly, Riley let a small sigh escape — a breath not caught in fear, but in tiny relief.

The social worker stood, giving them one last warm smile. “I’ll check in again soon, okay?” she said. “You’re safe here. They’ve got you.”

Riley didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Their hand twitched slightly in Finley’s fabric, a silent acknowledgment. It was enough.

After the social worker left, Riley remained on the couch for a few long moments, holding Finley tightly. Billie sat down beside them, careful not to crowd, humming softly. Maggie joined on the other side, pulling the blanket closer around Riley’s shoulders.

For the first time in weeks, Riley allowed themselves to relax, just a fraction. No words were exchanged, but trust was beginning to thread through the tension, fragile and new.

Riley lifted Finley toward Billie, the shark’s soft fabric brushing Billie’s hand. Billie gave a small, proud smile, squeezing back gently.

“You’re doing amazing,” Billie whispered. “No one else matters right now. Just you, Finley, and us.”

Riley didn’t respond — but their eyes softened. They rested against the shark, against the safety of the family that had chosen to protect them, and allowed themselves to exist without fear.

And for the first time, just for a moment, Riley felt like maybe this could be a place to call home.

Chapter Text

The day felt heavier than it should have.

Riley sat curled up in the corner of the couch, Finley pressed to their chest like armor. The sunlight spilling through the living room windows felt almost aggressive — too bright, too wide, too exposing. Yesterday, the hospital. Today, the social worker. Riley didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to move.

Billie and Maggie had been patient, as always, but even their warmth couldn’t fully dissolve the tension coiling in Riley’s chest. The house, normally safe, suddenly felt full of expectation.

When the doorbell rang, Riley flinched. Finley nearly slipped from their lap. Billie’s footsteps were quick but soft as she went to the door, peeking through the glass and calling, “They’re here.”

Riley’s stomach tightened into a hard knot. The social worker. Another stranger in a suit, clipboard in hand, eyes trained on every corner. Every corner where Riley might hide.

Maggie knelt beside them. “You don’t have to move, Riley. They’ll come to you. And you can hold Finley as tight as you need. No one’s rushing you.”

Riley nodded slightly. Not a word. Their small body shrank into the cushions.

The social worker stepped inside, careful but professional. She smiled, giving Riley a polite nod. “Hello, Riley. I’m just here to check in. You can stay right there if you want — I won’t make you do anything you don’t like.”

Riley’s chest stuttered at the words, but they stayed perfectly still, eyes locked on Finley.

Billie crouched beside them. “See? It’s okay. You’re safe. They’re just visiting. No one’s touching anything you don’t want them to.”

The social worker nodded at Billie’s reassurance. “That’s great support. You’re doing the right thing by letting Riley feel in control.”

Riley shifted slightly, Finley pressed to their cheek now. They breathed in shallow, careful puffs.

The social worker turned to Maggie and Billie. “I’d like to ask a few questions — nothing complicated — about how Riley is settling in, routines, and interactions. I just want to see if this is a safe, supportive environment for them.”

Maggie’s voice was calm, soft, measured. “Absolutely. We’ve been keeping routines simple. Meals are predictable, we make sure Riley has quiet time, and we always check before doing anything that might make them uncomfortable.”

Billie added, “We’re patient. We don’t push. And we try to create space for Riley to communicate in whatever way they want — gestures, writing, or just being around us.”

The social worker nodded thoughtfully. “That’s excellent. And interactions with others in the house?”

Riley’s hands tightened slightly around Finley. Billie noticed. She moved her hand just a few inches closer to Riley’s, a silent offer of reassurance. Maggie glanced at Riley, smiling gently, not pressing.

“Riley is adjusting at their own pace,” Maggie said. “We respect their boundaries, and we give them opportunities to participate if they want to. They’ve been very responsive in their own ways — drawing, music, small interactions.”

The social worker crouched slightly to Riley’s level. “Riley, I know you’ve had a lot of change. You can just listen, that’s fine. But if you want to show me something or say anything, you can.”

Riley’s gaze flicked to the floor. Finley moved slightly as their hands twitched. Billie’s eyes softened. She whispered, just for them, “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk. You can just breathe. We’ve got you.”

Riley’s breath hitched once. Tiny, tentative. But the social worker’s presence wasn’t sharp, threatening, or overbearing. She waited patiently, silent, professional, not forcing engagement.

After a long moment, Riley shifted slightly on the couch. Finley still clutched to their chest, but their eyes met Billie’s briefly. A small nod. Just a flicker of acknowledgment.

Billie smiled softly, proud, and whispered, “That’s it. That’s all you need to do.”

The social worker scribbled some notes, observing the dynamic carefully. “They seem comfortable with you, Billie. And with Maggie as well. Their choice to stay close and maintain control is a positive sign of trust.”

Riley blinked slowly, small, almost imperceptible. But to Billie and Maggie, it was a victory — a quiet, internal affirmation that Riley was beginning to feel safe.

The visit continued, questions asked of Billie and Maggie, reassurance given to Riley, who remained wrapped around Finley like a tiny island in a sea of adults. The social worker even asked about routines — meal times, bedtime, music, quiet activities. Riley shifted slightly as Billie mentioned music, a faint exhale escaping them.

After what felt like hours to Riley but was probably just under an hour, the social worker rose. “Thank you, everyone. I think you’re providing an incredibly safe environment. Riley is adjusting in their own time, and that’s exactly how it should be.”

Riley exhaled slowly when she left, shoulders lowering for the first time that day. Finley drooped slightly in their arms, but still present.

Billie nudged them gently. “See? That wasn’t so bad. You did great.”

Riley didn’t respond, but they leaned slightly into Billie’s side, a tiny gesture of trust. Maggie smiled, brushing a hand lightly over Riley’s hair.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Patrick and Finneas came back later, voices carefully modulated to not overwhelm. Riley stayed near Billie and Maggie, Finley pressed to their chest, and little by little, they began to engage in small ways — stacking books, tracing the patterns on the rug, letting their hands brush against Billie’s as she passed by.

By evening, Riley had even accepted a piece of chocolate from Maggie without recoiling.

It was nothing huge, nothing verbal, nothing that could be measured in words. But it was progress.

Billie hummed softly at the piano while Riley sketched quietly in their notebook, Finley resting beside them. Maggie tidied up the kitchen with quiet efficiency. The house was calm. Safe. Warm.

And for the first time in a long while, Riley let themselves breathe.

Even if just for a little while, they believed — maybe only a fraction — that this could be home.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet in that deep evening way — the kind of quiet that sits heavy in the corners, softens the edges of objects, and makes shadows stretch long across the floor. The sun had dipped low, the last streaks of gold and amber gliding along the walls, mixing with the cool blue of coming night. Riley lingered in the hallway, hesitant, clutching Finley like a talisman. The little shark’s worn fabric, familiar and comforting, was the only thing that kept her grounded as she edged forward.

She had wandered this house before, but only the main rooms, the kitchen, the living room, the couch where she sometimes curled with Finley. Tonight, curiosity pulled at her. A soft, unspoken question: what else belonged here? What secrets had this house tucked away?

The stairs loomed before her, a gentle incline that seemed taller in the dim evening light. The house smelled faintly of wood polish and lingering coffee. Her fingers brushed against the railing, the smooth varnish cool beneath her skin. She hesitated at the top, listening for any sound of movement downstairs. Patrick and Finneas had been quiet for hours, probably absorbed in something far from her world, far from her thoughts.

With a small inhale, she took her first careful step. One. Then another. The hall stretched ahead like a tunnel, lined with doors that led to rooms she hadn’t dared explore before. Shadows pooled in the corners, soft and deep. Riley’s chest tightened as she passed them, heart quick but steadying. She told herself she was safe. She had Finley. She had the house. She had the soft hum of evening around her.

One door at the end of the hall caught her attention. A faint, familiar vibration of energy lingered through it — the low thrum of music, instruments, cables. It was Billie’s studio. She hadn’t been inside before.

Riley’s hand hovered over the doorknob. Her fingers trembled slightly, uncertainty prickling at her skin. But the pull of curiosity was stronger than fear tonight. She twisted the knob slowly, careful not to make a sound, and the door swung open just a crack.

The room was dimly lit by a single lamp in the corner, throwing golden light over rows of equipment, cables coiled neatly on the floor, and a small record player sitting atop a shelf near the wall. Posters and sheets of lyrics lined the walls, scribbled and messy, intimate. Instruments rested in their stands, silent. The air smelled faintly of vinyl and wood polish, the familiar scent of creative space.

Riley’s eyes widened slightly. She had never been in a room so clearly alive with someone else’s passion. And yet, it felt safe, inviting even. She stepped inside, toes careful on the wooden floor. Each step was measured, almost reverent.

Her gaze fell on the record player. It sat on a low shelf, vintage and precious, its surface gleaming in the soft lamplight. And beside it, a stack of vinyls beckoned — one in particular caught her eye. Romance by Fontaines D.C. The cover art was bold, dark, moody, and somehow… perfect.

Riley’s fingers itched to touch it. She hesitated, mind whispering, Don’t. You shouldn’t. You don’t belong here. But the house felt quiet and safe tonight, and the curiosity in her chest pressed forward stronger than the fear. She reached out, lifted the vinyl gently, and set it on the player.

The needle hovered for a moment before settling. The soft crackle of the first spin filled the room, a tactile, grounding sound. Riley exhaled, a small breath she didn’t know she had been holding. The music rolled over her in waves — mournful, intimate, stirring something fragile and hidden inside her.

She sank to the floor, cross-legged, Finley pressed to her chest, and let the notes wash over her. Each chord, each rasp of guitar, felt like it carried her away from the anxiety coiling in her stomach. For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, she felt herself exist outside of fear.

She closed her eyes, letting the music guide her. Fingers absentmindedly stroked Finley’s fin, tapping lightly in rhythm with the song. The world beyond the studio — the house, the people, the judgments — melted into a blur of shadows and light.

And then.

The door slammed open.

“Riley!”

Her eyes snapped open. Her body froze. Finley slipped slightly in her grip as her chest constricted and her stomach twisted.

Finneas stood in the doorway, brows furrowed, lips tight. “What are you doing with my record player?!” His voice was sharp, loud, accusing.

Riley didn’t move. She didn’t speak. Her entire body went rigid, the room shrinking to the space between her and Finley. Her chest felt tight, her breath short, her hands clenching the little shark so hard it wrinkled in protest.

“Riley, move!” Finneas barked, stepping closer, his eyes wide with panic at the sight of the vinyl on the player. “You could—”

The words blurred. Riley’s mind shut down. The sound of yelling, the intensity of anger, all of it triggered something buried deep inside her. She froze completely, limbs stiff, eyes wide and shining. Her body trembled under Finley’s weight. She wanted to disappear, to vanish into the floorboards, to be anywhere but here.

Then, the tears came. Small at first, trembling along her cheeks, then faster, heavier. She hid her face in Finley, rocking slightly, body shaking with the force of it. Every shout, every harsh word felt bigger than the room, louder than the walls. Riley’s world condensed to fear, to protection, to the warmth of the shark pressed against her chest.

“Riley!”

Billie’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and steady. She was in the doorway now, her presence immediate and commanding. “Finneas! Out. Now.”

Finneas blinked, startled, eyes darting between Riley and Billie. “Billie—”

“I said out!” Billie’s voice was low and fierce. She stepped forward, placing herself between Riley and her brother. “You can be annoyed about the record later. Right now, Riley needs space!”

Riley hiccupped, small noises escaping through the fabric of the shark. The music still played softly in the background, but it was drowned out by the storm of emotions in the room.

Billie knelt beside Riley, brushing hair from her face gently. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Riley’s hands trembled, clutching Finley to her chest, pressing the little shark’s fabric against her lips. She let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a breath, shaking with the release of all the fear pent up inside her.

Finneas hesitated at the door. His anger had vanished, replaced with guilt, confusion, concern. “Riley—”

Billie turned, eyes blazing. “I said out, Finneas. Go. You can apologize later. Don’t you dare be in this room right now.”

Finneas’ jaw tightened, but he obeyed, muttering an almost inaudible, “Sorry…” before retreating. The door clicked softly behind him.

Billie exhaled and turned her full attention back to Riley. She crouched close, careful not to crowd her. “Look at me, okay? Look at me.”

Riley lifted her head slightly, tear-streaked cheeks pressed against Finley. Her eyes were glassy, fragile, fearful.

“It’s okay,” Billie whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault. You’re safe here. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I won’t. Not ever.”

Riley trembled, shivering slightly, but the words, Billie’s voice, the warmth beside her, began to seep into her chest. Slowly, imperceptibly, the rigidity in her body softened. She let herself rest against Billie’s shoulder, clutching Finley, rocking gently as the soft strains of the record played on in the background.

Billie rested a hand lightly on Riley’s back, pressing the other to the little shark’s fin. “See? Finley’s still here. The music’s still here. And I’m still here. Everything’s okay.”

Riley hiccupped again, letting a small, shaky breath escape. The sobs lessened, reduced to quiet tremors. Her body, still tense, started to relax in tiny increments, the walls around her slowly lowering.

Billie stayed with her, whispering soft reassurances, humming faintly along with the music. The room was quiet except for the music, the soft breaths, the occasional hiccup. It felt sacred, a little sanctuary carved out from fear.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was only minutes, Riley lifted her gaze. Eyes still shiny, cheeks damp, but she gave Billie a small, tentative look — an acknowledgment, a sign that the storm had passed, at least for now.

Billie smiled softly, brushing fingers through Riley’s hair. “That’s my brave girl,” she said gently. “You’re safe. You’re okay. We’ll always be here.”

The music hummed on, filling the quiet studio. Riley’s hands still held Finley tight, but her breathing was steadier, her shoulders less rigid. For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to really listen, letting the melodies of Romance wash over her, carrying her slowly out of panic and into something resembling peace.

Billie stayed kneeling beside her, silent now except for the occasional hum, watching her carefully, protective, unwavering. Outside the studio, the house was quiet again. Shadows stretched long across the walls, golden and deep, safe and soft.

Riley clutched Finley, hugged Billie’s arm lightly, and let herself rest there.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt — if only a little — that she could be home.

Chapter Text

The house felt heavy that evening, thick with shadows and the fading gold of sunlight slipping through the blinds. Every small noise sounded amplified—the creak of a floorboard, the soft hum of the fridge, the whisper of the wind against the windows. Riley sat in the corner of the living room, hugging Finley to her chest, trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible. Her breaths were shallow, her knees pressed to her chin.

Billie, Maggie, and Patrick were all out, leaving the house empty except for Riley and Finneas. And Finneas… he moved around with sharp, tense energy, muttering under his breath and slamming things against the counters. Every clatter, every metallic scrape made Riley flinch and shrink further into herself. She tried to melt into the couch, hoping, praying, that he wouldn’t notice her.

But he did.

“Riley!” Finneas barked suddenly, his voice slicing through the quiet. Riley’s stomach dropped, her body stiffening immediately. She clutched Finley tighter, pressing it against her chest.

“What?!” she whispered, barely audible.

“You think you can just sit there, doing nothing, like you belong here?!” he shouted, slamming a plate down with such force it rattled the cupboard doors. “Do you even give a shit about anyone in this house, or are you just here to be—”

“—a fucking disaster?!” he finished, his voice cracking as he stomped closer, eyes wide and furious.

Riley’s chest tightened. Her stomach lurched. Her fingers clawed at Finley so hard the seams wrinkled. Words became impossible. Her voice, fragile and tiny, was trapped somewhere deep in her throat.

“You make everything worse, Riley! Everything!” he shouted, the veins in his neck taut, his fists clenching. “Do you even understand what it’s like to live with you in this house? Do you know what it’s like to try and not have things ruined every second?”

Riley froze. Her body quivered. Each word felt like a hammer pounding inside her chest. The little shark in her arms was the only thing keeping her grounded, only thing keeping her from disappearing entirely.

“You’re a fucking nightmare!” Finneas’ voice boomed, closer now, furious and unstoppable. “Do you even realize how selfish you are? You’re a selfish, pathetic little shit, Riley! Everything falls apart when you’re around! Do you hear me?”

Riley’s breathing hitched, her chest tight. The world narrowed to Finneas’ shouting, the red heat of his face, the harsh vibration of his voice in the room. She tried to say something, to defend herself, to explain I’m trying, but her throat constricted. Her body shook violently, every nerve raw.

“You don’t listen! You don’t care! You don’t do anything right! You’re just… useless!” he yelled, stepping forward. The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing closer with each word.

Riley’s mind screamed, but no sound came out. Her hands clutched Finley like a lifeline, pressing the plushie to her face as tears welled up, blinding her. The anger, the rage, the sheer weight of it all slammed into her chest.

“I swear to God, Riley, if you don’t get your shit together, I don’t even know what I’ll do with you!” Finneas shouted, pacing with wild, jerky movements. “Do you even understand what it’s like to have anyone rely on you? Because you’re a fucking disaster, that’s all you are!”

Riley’s chest tightened painfully. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred with tears. The words struck again and again, hammering through the fragile walls she had built around herself.

She bolted.

“Riley, wait—” Finneas’ voice thundered after her, but she didn’t stop. Her legs carried her as fast as they could, her body trembling uncontrollably. She hugged Finley tighter to her chest, the soft fabric pressing against her lips as she ran, tears streaming down her cheeks. The hallway seemed endless, shadows flickering around her trembling frame.

She reached her bedroom door and yanked it shut, fumbling with the lock. The click echoed like a small barrier against the fury behind it, but it didn’t stop the shaking, the sobs, the tight, panicked breaths that tore through her chest.

Riley sank to the floor, curling into herself, hugging Finley to her chest like a shield. Her body trembled, heart hammering, breaths short and uneven. The words Finneas had screamed at her looped endlessly in her mind: pathetic, useless, disaster, nightmare, selfish… Each syllable dug deeper, making her smaller, pressing her down further into the corner of the room.

The room felt suffocating and infinite at the same time. Time dragged, each second thick with the echo of anger. Riley couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She just pressed herself into a fragile ball, sobbing quietly, rocking slightly as the panic faded into an all-encompassing hopelessness.

A soft click at the door made her flinch. A low voice, barely audible, whispered: “Riley… it’s me. I’m here.”

Riley flinched and pressed Finley tighter to her chest. She didn’t answer, didn’t lift her head. She just curled tighter into herself, trembling, tears wetting the fabric of the shark.

Billie knelt briefly at the doorway, voice low: “You’re safe… I’m here.” She lingered only a moment, letting Riley know she wasn’t alone, and then stepped back. Riley buried herself further into the corner, letting the quiet, the darkness, and the plushie hold her together.

Hours passed. The sun fully set, leaving only the dim glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. Riley remained on the floor, trembling and exhausted, the residual heat of fear still pulsing in her chest. Her sobs had softened into shaky breaths, her body curled tightly, trying to disappear into herself.

Finley rested between her arms, the only stable thing in the world. And though Billie’s presence had been brief, her whisper lingered, a fragile promise in the quiet of the evening. Riley pressed the shark closer, letting herself drift into numbness, holding onto the smallest anchor she could find.

Chapter Text

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
A/N:
HEY Y’ALL ✩ just a quick PSA before anyone calls the FBI wondering where I vanished to — I’m going on HOLIDAY for a week!! ✩

That’s right, I’m trading my keyboard for sunglasses, snacks, and possibly a regrettable sunburn ✩ Updates will be on pause while I go vibe, but don’t worry — I will return (probably with a suitcase full of weird souvenirs and new brainrot ideas).

So if you see tumbleweeds rolling through my AO3 for a bit, just know I’m out there somewhere… eating chips by the ocean and pretending to be mysterious ✩

See you in a week, besties!! Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone ✩
— Korithedevil2 ✩

Chapter Text

Sunlight leaked through the blinds in jagged stripes, cutting across Riley’s bed. She was curled tight under the covers, Finley pressed to her chest, trembling. Her hair stuck to her damp cheeks, her body rigid with fear. Every sound — the creak of stairs, a soft cough, the shuffle of movement downstairs — sent jolts of panic through her small frame.

From below, voices rose, jagged and sharp.

“You cannot just shout at her!” Maggie’s voice rang out, sharp with frustration. “Do you even care what you did, Finneas?”

Finneas leaned against the counter, shoulders stiff, hands shoved in his pockets. “I do care, okay? But she’s being ridiculous. She won’t even listen.”

“She’s terrified!” Patrick’s voice roared, shaking the walls. “A foster child! And you yelled at her! Do you understand what that does to a kid who’s already scared of everything?”

Finneas sighed, irritation creeping into his tone. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. But she can’t hide forever. She needs to deal with reality at some point.”

Riley pressed Finley closer, stomach twisting violently. Every word downstairs stabbed at her chest. She buried her face in the plushie, wishing the walls could swallow her whole.

Maggie’s voice hardened, eyes flashing even though Riley couldn’t see her. “Reality? She’s fourteen! She’s been through hell! And you—you act like her fear doesn’t matter. Do you even hear yourself?”

Patrick stepped forward, low and dangerous. “You need to fix this. She’s terrified of you. She’s curled up in her bed right now, scared to even breathe. And if you don’t care enough to change, then you’re just part of the problem.”

Finneas ran a hand through his hair, letting out a sharp exhale. “Fine. I… I’ll apologize. Happy now?”

Maggie’s glare could have burned through the floor. “It’s not about being happy. It’s about her. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it,” he muttered, his tone clipped, detached. He wasn’t cruel, exactly, just careless, unbothered by the terror he’d caused.

Upstairs, Riley’s body shook violently. She hugged Finley to her face, trying to disappear. Every syllable from downstairs, every careless mutter from Finneas, pressed against her heart like a fist. She couldn’t breathe properly. She wanted to run. She wanted the world to stop. But she was trapped.

Patrick softened slightly, turning to Maggie. “We’ll deal with him later. Right now… we need to protect her. She’s scared out of her mind.”

Maggie nodded, exhaling slowly. “I know. Poor thing… she’s upstairs, trembling. I hate that she has to hear this.”

Riley whimpered softly under her blanket, pressing Finley closer. She was too terrified to peek over the edge of the bed, too scared to even move.

A quiet creak signaled someone coming up the stairs. Riley stiffened, heart hammering. But then, soft, familiar footsteps approached. Billie’s voice followed, gentle and careful.

“Riley… hey,” she whispered. The sound was smooth, soothing. “I thought you might need a little break from all… that.”

Riley didn’t answer. She stayed pressed into her covers, but her trembling slowed slightly as Billie sat down quietly beside the bed. She didn’t touch her at first — just let her presence settle in the room.

“I know it’s scary,” Billie continued, voice soft. “I know it’s loud and… and unfair. But you’re okay. I’m here.”

Riley sniffled, finally lifting her eyes just enough to see Billie. Her small gaze met Billie’s calm, careful expression, and for a fleeting second, she felt… safe. Not entirely, not fully, but enough to let a shaky breath escape.

Billie reached beside her and pulled a small pair of noise-cancelling headphones from a backpack she’d brought. “Here. You can put these on. Block out everything you don’t want to hear. The shouting, the yelling… it won’t get to you with these.”

Riley hesitated, trembling, but Billie smiled softly. “It’s okay. Just… just use them if you need to. You don’t have to face anything you’re not ready for.”

Slowly, Riley reached out and took them, her fingers brushing Billie’s gently. She pressed them over her ears, and the world muted. The chaos downstairs, Finneas’s careless muttering, Maggie and Patrick’s scolding — all of it became distant, almost nonexistent.

Billie leaned back slightly, careful not to crowd her. “Better?” she asked softly.

Riley nodded, still curled up but calmer now, the weight of terror easing slightly with the muted sound. A small, shaky breath escaped her lips.

Billie reached over and rested a hand lightly on Riley’s shoulder, not pressing, just letting her know she was there. “You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you here. Not while I’m around.”

Upstairs, Riley hugged Finley tighter, the terror from before still simmering beneath the surface, but for the first time this morning, a fragile spark of comfort flickered in her chest. Billie’s presence, and the small shield of the headphones, gave her a tiny pocket of safety — a place where she could breathe, think, and maybe, eventually, trust again.

Downstairs, the tension continued, but it no longer reached her ears. Riley could stay in her bed, wrapped in her cocoon, while Billie’s calm voice and quiet presence became her anchor in the storm.

For the first time in hours, she dared to relax — just a little. And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The sun was low on the horizon, casting a warm amber glow across the living room that seemed to soften every harsh edge and sharp corner into something gentler, more forgiving. The light streamed through the large bay windows that overlooked the front yard, painting golden rectangles across the worn floorboards that had witnessed countless footsteps, countless moments of joy and sorrow in this foster home. The shadows stretched lazily across those same floorboards, elongating with each passing minute, softening the edges of the furniture into gentle, almost dreamlike shapes that seemed to blur the boundaries between solid objects and the air around them.

Outside, beyond the glass panes that separated the warm interior from the cooling evening air, the wind stirred restlessly through the trees. Leaves rustled and whispered against the windowpane, creating a quiet, almost hypnotic sound that contrasted sharply with the chaos that had erupted earlier in the day. The gentle percussion of nature seemed almost deliberately calming, as if the world itself were trying to soothe the frayed nerves of everyone who had endured the morning's turmoil.

Riley sat curled on the oversized couch, her small frame nearly swallowed by the cushions that had seen better days but still offered a surprising amount of comfort. Her knees were drawn tightly to her chest in a protective posture that had become second nature to her over the years, a physical manifestation of the walls she had built around her heart. Finley, her beloved shark plushie—worn from countless nights of desperate clinging, its once-vibrant blue fabric now faded to a softer shade, its stitching coming loose in places from years of being the only constant in a life of upheaval—was nestled tightly under one arm, pressed so close to her body that it seemed they might have fused together.

Her small fingers, delicate and pale, twined around the plushie's dorsal fin with an intensity that spoke of desperation rather than affection. She held onto Finley as if clinging to it could anchor her to reality, could keep her from floating away into the dark places in her mind where fear and memory lived. The fin was worn smooth where she always held it, the fabric thin from years of friction, a testament to how long this small stuffed shark had been her only reliable source of comfort.

The earlier morning still clung to her consciousness like a shadow she couldn't shake, no matter how much time passed. Finneas's voice, careless and sharp in a way that only people who had never known true fear could be, replayed in her mind with crystal clarity, making her flinch even now in the relative safety and silence of the living room. She could still hear the exact tone he had used, still feel the way his words had struck her like physical blows, still remember the sick, twisting feeling in her stomach when he had raised his voice without warning or apparent reason.

The scolding from Maggie and Patrick that had followed—though meant to protect her, though delivered with genuine concern and a desire to make things right—had only served to highlight how vulnerable she felt in this house, in this life, in this world that seemed determined to hurt her no matter where she went. Every adult seemed like a potential storm she couldn't predict, couldn't prepare for, couldn't defend against. She hadn't yet learned to trust anyone fully, not after everything she had been through. The scars weren't visible on her skin, but they ran deep through her psyche, creating patterns of expectation and fear that colored every interaction, every relationship, every moment of her young life.

Her chest tightened with every creak from the house, every faint sound drifting from the kitchen where Maggie and Patrick were quietly preparing dinner, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy after the disruption. The old house settled and groaned with its own ancient rhythms, sounds that most people would find comforting in their familiarity, but to Riley each one was a potential threat, a warning that something bad might be about to happen. Her heart would skip and race with each unexpected noise, her body tensing for flight or freeze, unable to relax even for a moment.

Billie watched her quietly from the hallway, partially obscured by the doorframe, her own heart tightening painfully at the sight of this small, traumatized child. Billie had seen a lot in her years of working with foster children, had witnessed the aftermath of abuse and neglect more times than she cared to count, but something about Riley struck her differently. Perhaps it was the particular quality of the child's fear, the way she tried so hard to be invisible while simultaneously desperate for connection. Perhaps it was the way Riley reminded Billie of herself at that age, before she had learned to armor herself against the world.

Riley looked so fragile sitting there, like a small bird caught in the middle of a world too big, too loud, too unpredictable for her delicate wings to navigate. She seemed almost translucent in the amber light, as if she might disappear entirely if someone looked away for too long. Billie had spent the entire morning keeping an eye on her from afar, maintaining a careful distance, letting the foster parents Maggie and Patrick handle the immediate aftermath of the shouting match with their biological son Finneas. She had watched from the periphery as they had tried to comfort Riley, tried to explain that Finneas was wrong, tried to make her understand that she was safe and wanted here.

But Billie had seen the way Riley had shut down during those conversations, the way her eyes had glazed over and her body had gone rigid. Sometimes, in the immediate aftermath of trauma, children needed space more than they needed reassurance. Sometimes they needed to process alone before they could accept comfort from anyone. Billie understood this instinctively, perhaps because she had been that child once.

Now the house was quieter, the immediate crisis having passed into a tense afternoon of careful avoidance and whispered conversations. Evening had descended gently, painting the world in softer colors, and with it came a rare opportunity: Riley was alone in the living room, no longer surrounded by well-meaning adults whose presence seemed to overwhelm rather than comfort her. Maggie and Patrick were giving her space, honoring Billie's quiet suggestion that perhaps the child needed time to decompress. Finneas had been sent to his room with a serious talk about consequences and empathy, and would not be emerging for the rest of the evening.

This meant Billie could finally try to reach the girl without any distractions, without any harsh tones lingering in the air, without the complicated dynamics of family obligations and sibling resentments clouding the atmosphere. She could be simply herself—not a social worker, not an authority figure, not someone who would judge or punish or demand—just Billie, someone who understood pain and wanted to offer comfort without strings attached.

She moved slowly down the hallway, making sure each step was deliberate and non-threatening, her feet making soft sounds against the hardwood floor that she knew Riley would hear. She wanted to give Riley room to see her coming without feeling cornered or ambushed, wanted to offer the child agency even in something as simple as whether or not to accept her company. As she entered the living room, she made sure to stay in Riley's line of sight, making no sudden movements, keeping her body language open and non-threatening.

"Hey," she whispered gently, her voice soft and careful, pitched low so as not to startle. She infused the simple greeting with all the warmth and acceptance she could muster, trying to communicate through tone alone that she came as a friend, not a threat. "Can I sit with you for a bit?"

Riley's head snapped up with the reflexive wariness of someone who had learned to be hypervigilant, her eyes wide and wary, showing too much white around the pale blue irises. The plushie was pressed tightly to her face immediately, hiding most of her expression behind the worn blue fabric, creating a barrier between herself and this new potential source of harm. She didn't answer, didn't move beyond that initial startled reaction, but her hands clutched Finley tighter—so tight her knuckles went white—as if the shark could shield her from whatever Billie intended.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with Riley's fear and Billie's careful patience. Billie could see the child's mind working, could almost hear the internal debate: trust or flight, engage or hide, accept or reject. She knew better than to push, knew that any pressure right now would only drive Riley further into herself.

Billie nodded slowly, understanding flooding her features with gentle acceptance. "That's okay," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "You don't have to answer. I'll just sit here. Quietly. If that's okay." She lowered herself to the edge of the couch with careful deliberation, far enough away not to feel imposing or invasive, close enough to be a presence Riley could sense and perhaps, eventually, draw comfort from. She settled into the cushions, making herself as non-threatening as possible, keeping her hands visible and relaxed in her lap, maintaining a posture that was open but not expectant.

Minutes passed in silence—real, substantial minutes that felt like hours in their weight and significance. The only sounds were the soft hum of the wind outside as it continued its restless dance through the trees, and Riley's shallow, uneven breaths that spoke of anxiety barely contained. Billie didn't push, didn't speak, didn't do anything except exist there in that space, steady, calm, a living promise that she wasn't going anywhere, that she wouldn't demand or expect or require anything in return for her presence.

She let the silence do its work, let Riley adjust to having her there, let the child's nervous system slowly begin to recognize that no threat was materializing, that nothing bad was happening simply because an adult was near. It was a technique she had learned through years of working with traumatized children: sometimes the greatest gift you could give was simply being present without agenda, without need, without pushing for connection or communication. Sometimes healing began in silence.

Eventually, after what might have been five minutes or fifteen—time seemed to move differently in these moments of careful connection—Billie reached slowly into her bag that she had set beside the couch when she first entered the room. Every movement was telegraphed, visible, giving Riley ample time to track what she was doing and prepare for whatever might emerge. She pulled out a small, soft blanket that she had brought specifically for this purpose, a gentle blue-green that reminded her of ocean waters, made from the softest fleece she could find.

"I thought you might like this," she said, letting the fabric unfold slowly, the movement deliberate and unthreatening. She didn't drape it over Riley immediately, didn't assume permission to enter the child's space; instead, she let the girl see it first, let her examine it from a safe distance, giving her the choice of whether to accept this small offering of comfort. "It's soft. You can use it if you want. Or not. That's fine too."

The blanket pooled in Billie's lap, its plush texture visible even from a distance, looking warm and inviting without being overwhelming. It was small enough not to feel smothering, large enough to provide real warmth and comfort. Billie had chosen it carefully, thinking about what might appeal to a child who needed gentleness but couldn't ask for it, who craved comfort but was afraid to accept it.

Riley's small fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, a tiny movement that might have gone unnoticed by someone who wasn't watching as carefully as Billie was. Curiosity warred visibly with fear across the small portion of her face that was visible above the shark plushie. She peeked at the blanket from behind Finley's protective bulk, then at Billie's face trying to read the adult's intentions, then back to Finley as if seeking advice from her constant companion. The hesitation was palpable, filling the air between them, a silent battle waged in her chest between the desire for comfort and the fear of what accepting it might mean, what it might cost her.

In Riley's experience, nothing came without strings attached. Adults who offered kindness usually wanted something in return, even if that something was just performance of gratitude or forced interaction. The concept of unconditional care was foreign to her, something she intellectually knew existed but had rarely if ever experienced directly. So she hesitated, frozen between want and fear, unable to quite believe that this blanket was being offered without expectation.

Finally, after a long moment that seemed to hang suspended in the amber light, ever so slowly, she reached out a trembling hand from beneath the protective shield of her plushie. The movement was tentative, uncertain, ready to snatch back at the first sign of danger or disappointment. But Billie didn't move except to gently lift the blanket, making it easy for Riley to accept, making the gesture as simple and non-threatening as possible.

Riley allowed Billie to drape it over her shoulders with the gentlest of touches, barely making contact with the child's body. The warmth was immediate, seeping through her thin t-shirt, comforting in a way that was purely physical and therefore safe. For a brief moment, she felt a flicker of safety she hadn't dared feel all day, a tiny ember of comfort that glowed softly in the cold darkness of her fear.

"There you go," Billie whispered, her voice warm and approving without being effusive. "Nice and warm. Nothing else matters right now. Just you and me, okay? Just sitting here together. No expectations, no demands. Just being."

Riley's breath hitched—a small, sharp intake that spoke of emotion barely contained. She buried her face in Finley again, pressing the plushie so tightly against her face that it must have been hard to breathe, but the pressure seemed to comfort her in some way. A small, almost imperceptible nod escaped from beneath the plushie, a tiny acknowledgment that she had heard, that she accepted Billie's words, that she was willing—however tentatively—to try trusting this moment if not yet the person creating it.

Billie smiled softly, feeling a small surge of hope and tenderness. She let Riley take all the time she needed, didn't rush or push or try to build on this tiny moment of connection. She simply sat, breathing quietly, being present, letting her own calm radiate outward in the hope that Riley might absorb some of it through proximity.

After a few more minutes passed—minutes filled with the settling sounds of the house, the distant clatter of dishes being washed in the kitchen, the soft whisper of wind through leaves—Billie shifted slightly in her seat. The movement was slow and telegraphed, giving Riley time to adjust to the change. She reached behind her to a small tray she had brought and set on the side table earlier, before Riley had even come downstairs after the incident with Finneas. The tray held a small cup of cocoa that had cooled to a warm but not hot temperature, topped with a few miniature marshmallows that floated like tiny clouds.

The aroma of chocolate filled the air gently, sweet and comforting without being overpowering or cloying. It was the smell of care, of someone thinking ahead about comfort, of small kindnesses prepared in advance. "I made this for you," she said softly, lifting the cup carefully so Riley could see it clearly. "You don't have to drink it if you don't want to, but it's warm… and maybe it'll help you feel a little better. Sometimes warm things help when we're feeling cold inside."

Riley's fingers twitched again near the edge of the blanket, her body language suggesting interest despite her continued wariness. Her eyes tracked the cup as Billie moved it, following its path with an intensity that suggested she wanted it but didn't know how to bridge the gap between wanting and having. She hovered, uncertain, her hand lifting slightly as if to reach out, then pulling back, then lifting again in an agonizing dance of indecision.

Billie didn't push or encourage with words that might feel like pressure. She simply placed the cup within easy reach on the couch cushion between them, letting Riley know it was there, waiting patiently if she chose to accept it. The marshmallows bobbed gently in the liquid, creating small ripples that caught the amber light streaming through the windows. Steam rose in delicate tendrils, visible in the slanting sunbeams, carrying that chocolate scent through the air.

Minutes passed again, each one adding weight to the silence without making it uncomfortable. The silence wasn't heavy or oppressive this time—it was careful, intentional, full of potential rather than emptiness. Billie let her presence be a constant anchor, as steady and reliable as a lighthouse beam, a signal that Riley could trust her to be steady, to be gentle, to be patient no matter how long it took for the child to feel safe enough to accept what was being offered.

She watched from the corner of her eye without staring directly, not wanting to make Riley feel observed or pressured by her gaze. She noticed every small movement, every tiny shift in body language that might indicate what the child was feeling or thinking. She saw the moment when Riley's breathing began to slow slightly, the tension in her small shoulders easing by fractions of degrees. She saw when curiosity began to overcome fear, when the desire for comfort started to outweigh the expectation of pain.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Riley reached out and touched the edge of the cup with just the tips of her fingers. The ceramic was warm but not hot, comfortable against her cold skin. She let her fingers rest there for a moment, testing, waiting for something bad to happen, for the offer to be revoked or revealed as a trick. When nothing changed, when Billie simply continued sitting quietly beside her with no expectation or demand, Riley's small fingers curled around the cup more fully.

Her hands trembled as she lifted it, the liquid inside shaking slightly, threatening to spill. But she managed it, bringing the cup closer to herself, letting it rest in the small space between her folded legs. The warmth seeped into her hands, traveled up her arms, began to chase away the cold that had settled into her bones during the long, frightening day. It grounded her in the moment, gave her something tangible and present to focus on besides the memories and fears that haunted her thoughts.

"You're doing great," Billie whispered, her voice soft like a lullaby, barely disturbing the peaceful quiet that had settled over them. "You're okay. You're safe. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. Nothing bad is going to happen. Just us, just this moment, just warmth and quiet."

Riley didn't answer with words—speech still felt too dangerous, too exposing, too much like vulnerability she couldn't afford. But she allowed the cocoa to rest between her knees, supported by her legs, and she leaned slightly, almost unconsciously, against Billie's side. It was the smallest gesture, barely noticeable, just a few inches of movement that brought her body into contact with Billie's arm. But it was monumental in its significance—a crack in the wall she had built around herself, a signal that maybe, just maybe, someone could be trusted, at least in this moment, at least for now.

Billie felt the contact and deliberately didn't react, didn't make a big deal of it, didn't even acknowledge it verbally. She knew that if she drew attention to Riley's small step toward connection, the child might retreat immediately, embarrassed or frightened by her own vulnerability. So she simply absorbed the trust inherent in that tiny lean, felt the weight of it in her heart, and continued sitting still and steady.

The shadows lengthened across the room as evening deepened, the amber light gradually shifting toward gold, then toward the deeper oranges and reds of sunset. The sun continued its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky beyond the windows in increasingly dramatic colors. The warm glow of the afternoon was transforming into the muted, softer tones of approaching dusk. Inside the living room, the quality of light changed, becoming less direct, more diffused, creating an even more intimate atmosphere.

Maggie appeared briefly in the doorway, drawn by the need to check on Riley but smart enough to recognize the delicate scene unfolding on the couch. She caught Billie's eye, and Billie gave the smallest shake of her head—not now, this is working, give us space. Maggie nodded understanding and withdrew silently, going back to the kitchen to give them more time. She would keep dinner warm, would wait as long as necessary for this small miracle of connection to develop at its own pace.

Billie reached out slowly and carefully, telegraphing her intention with the gradual movement of her hand. She brushed a strand of hair from Riley's face, her touch feather-light, barely making contact with the child's skin. The gesture was tender without being possessive, caring without being demanding. "Do you want to tell me about your day?" she asked softly, though her tone made it clear that this was a genuine question, not a requirement or expectation. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I just… I want to listen if you feel ready. Sometimes talking helps, but sometimes it doesn't. You get to choose."

Riley's hands tightened on Finley reflexively, the plushie being pressed even closer if that was possible. The shark's fabric bunched between her fingers, worn smooth from years of this exact gesture. She was silent for a long while, and Billie began to think she wouldn't respond at all, that perhaps it was still too soon, too frightening, too much to ask even with all the gentleness in the world.

But after a pause that stretched on long enough that the light outside had shifted noticeably, after the sun had slipped another degree toward the horizon and the shadows had stretched another few inches across the floor, Riley muttered something so quietly it was almost inaudible, barely more than a breath: "It… it was scary."

The words were small and broken, carrying the weight of the entire day's trauma compressed into three simple syllables. They trembled in the air between them, a fragile offering of truth that had cost Riley dearly to speak aloud.

Billie nodded gently, slowly, making sure her response was proportionate to the trust that had just been extended. She never broke eye contact, keeping her gaze soft and accepting, making sure Riley could see in her face that she had been heard, that her feelings mattered, that her fear was valid and understood. "I know," she said quietly, each word chosen with care. "I can tell. And it's okay to feel that way. It makes complete sense. What happened this morning… it shouldn't have happened. No one should have spoken to you that way. But you're here now, and you're safe. Nothing's going to hurt you now. I promise."

The words seemed to ease the tension slightly, like releasing a breath that had been held too long. Riley's shoulders lowered, just a fraction of an inch, but enough to be noticeable to someone watching as closely as Billie was. She hugged Finley closer, but it was a different quality of closeness now—less desperate, more comforting, as if she were hugging the plushie for warmth rather than using it as a shield against the world.

Billie stayed perfectly still, letting Riley process her own feelings without interference, letting her choose the pace of this fragile conversation. She didn't try to fill the silence with platitudes or reassurances that might ring hollow. She simply sat, present and accepting, a steady point of safety in a world that had proven itself unsafe far too many times.

The living room continued to darken gradually as twilight approached. Patrick came to the doorway as Maggie had earlier, looked in to check on them, met Billie's eyes, and retreated without a word. The adults in this house were learning, adapting, trying to provide what Riley needed even when it went against their instincts to hover and protect more actively. They were learning that sometimes the best protection was giving space, creating safety without crowding it.

After another long while—five minutes or perhaps ten, time having lost its normal rhythm in the gentle cocoon of careful connection—Billie suggested softly, "How about we do something quiet together? Maybe we can color, or read a story? Just something calm… just us. Nothing loud, nothing scary, nothing that requires talking if you don't feel like it. Just quiet activity, side by side."

She gestured to a basket that sat on the coffee table, filled with coloring books and crayons that Maggie kept for the younger foster children who sometimes stayed in the home. The basket was well-stocked, organized, showing signs of frequent use and care. There were books with various themes—animals, landscapes, abstract patterns—and a rainbow selection of crayons still in decent condition, their paper wrappings only slightly worn.

Riley's small hand twitched toward the supplies almost automatically, drawn by the simple appeal of creation, of making something beautiful in a world that felt chaotic and frightening. Coloring was safe—it had rules but not rigid ones, it produced something concrete and controllable, it could be done in silence without requiring social interaction or emotional exposure. Her fingers hesitated in the air between the couch and the table, hovering uncertainly.

Tentatively, moving with the careful deliberation of someone who expected to be stopped or refused at any moment, she took one crayon—a blue-green that matched her blanket, that reminded her of ocean water and safety. Then she took another—purple, deep and rich like twilight. The weight of them in her hands was comforting, familiar, something she understood and could control.

Billie smiled, quiet and warm, letting her approval show without making it overwhelming. "That's perfect," she murmured, reaching over to pull one of the coloring books closer and open it to a fresh page—an underwater scene filled with fish and coral and waving seaweed that she thought might appeal to Riley. "We don't have to talk if you don't want to. Just… color. Just exist here with me for a little while. Make something beautiful. Take your time."

She selected her own crayons—warm yellows and oranges and reds—and began adding color to her own section of the page, establishing that they could share this activity without competing, without pressure, without judgment. Her movements were slow and peaceful, meditative, creating a rhythm that Riley could fall into if she chose.

Riley watched for a moment, tracking the movement of Billie's hand across the paper, seeing how she stayed inside the lines mostly but didn't seem upset when she went outside them occasionally. There was no perfectionism here, no demand for excellence, just the simple pleasure of putting color on paper and watching something blank become something vivid.

Slowly, Riley lowered her own crayon to the page and began to color. Her strokes were tentative at first, light enough that they barely left marks, as if she was afraid to commit fully to the action. But as she continued and nothing bad happened—as Billie simply continued coloring her own section peacefully, as the house remained quiet and safe around them, as no demands or criticisms materialized—she began to press harder, to make bolder choices, to fill in more space with more confident strokes.

The evening stretched on slowly, peacefully, the quality of time becoming thick and gentle like honey. Outside, the wind continued to whisper through the trees, and the house settled into the comforting rhythm of quiet domesticity. The kitchen sounds had faded as dinner preparations completed; Patrick and Maggie were giving them all the time they needed, understanding instinctively that something important was happening on that living room couch.

Riley remained sitting there, the blanket secure around her shoulders, Finley pressed to her chest but now resting against her rather than being used as armor, her tiny hands moving across the paper as Billie sat beside her, patient, steady, a constant presence. The cocoa was slowly disappearing as Riley took small sips between coloring, the warmth of it spreading through her body, chasing away the chill of fear and replacing it with something softer.

Every so often, Billie spoke softly: reminders of safety delivered in gentle tones, quiet encouragements about the colors Riley was choosing or the way she was bringing the picture to life, soft laughter at something one of them had colored just a little outside the lines. "Oh, I love that purple you used for that fish," she might murmur. Or, "You're really good at this, you know. You have an artist's eye." Nothing abrupt, nothing harsh, nothing that felt like pressure or performance. Just calm, just care, just authentic appreciation for Riley's existence and her creative expression.

The compliments were specific rather than general, which made them feel more genuine. Billie didn't just say "good job" or "that's nice"—she noticed particular choices, particular techniques, particular moments of beauty in what Riley was creating. She made the child feel seen without making her feel scrutinized, appreciated without being put on display.

As they colored, page after page, the light outside continued to shift. The sunset reached its peak, painting the sky in impossible shades of pink and orange and purple, then began to fade toward the deeper blues of evening. The first stars became visible through the window, tiny points of light in the darkening sky. Inside, Maggie quietly turned on a few lamps, keeping them dim, maintaining the peaceful atmosphere without letting darkness become oppressive or frightening.

Hours passed in this gentle way—real, substantial hours during which nothing dramatic happened but everything important did. The shadows deepened into proper night, the last light fading from the sky until only the soft glow of lamps illuminated the living room. The house hummed with quiet serenity, a sense of peace that felt earned rather than assumed, built from patience and careful attention to a small child's vast needs.

Riley, who had been trembling when Billie first sat down beside her, now sat a little taller. Her shoulders had gradually uncurled from their protective hunch. Her breathing had deepened and steadied into something more natural, less frightened. Her eyes, when they occasionally lifted from the coloring book to glance at Billie, were brighter, clearer, showing the first small signs of comfort shining through the layers of fear and trauma.

Billie's presence had given her the space to breathe, to feel, to trust—even if just a little, even if just for this one evening. It wasn't a complete healing; trauma didn't work that way, couldn't be resolved in a single quiet evening no matter how perfect. But it was a beginning, a foundation, a proof of concept that maybe safety was possible, that maybe someone could be trusted not to hurt her, that maybe the world contained gentleness as well as harm.

They talked a bit more as the evening deepened, small conversations that arose naturally from their coloring. Riley asked quietly what Billie's favorite color was, and Billie answered honestly that it was the blue-green of ocean water, like the crayon Riley had first chosen. Riley volunteered that she had seen the ocean once, when she was very small, before everything went bad. Billie asked gentle questions about that memory, and Riley shared tiny fragments of it—the sound of waves, the feeling of sand between her toes, the taste of salt in the air.

Each small revelation was a gift, a sign that the walls were lowering fractionally, that connection was forming thread by delicate thread. Billie received each one with quiet gratitude, never demanding more, always accepting whatever Riley chose to share and never pressuring her to go deeper than she was ready to go.

At one point, Riley asked, "Why are you being so nice to me?" The question was delivered with genuine confusion, as if kindness without agenda was a concept she couldn't quite grasp.

Billie set down her crayon and turned slightly to look at Riley directly, her expression honest and open. "Because you deserve kindness," she said simply. "Because everyone does, but especially kids who've been through hard things. Because I want you to know that not all adults are scary or unpredictable. Because I see you—really see you—and I think you're brave and strong, and I want to help you feel safe."

Riley absorbed this, processing, her small face showing concentration as she worked through the implications. "Even though I'm nobody special?" she asked, the question heartbreaking in its matter-of-fact delivery.

"You ARE somebody special," Billie responded firmly but gently. "You're Riley. You're a person with thoughts and feelings and the right to be treated with respect and care. That makes you special. You don't have to earn kindness, sweetie. It should be freely given, especially to kids."

Riley didn't respond with words, but something shifted in her expression—a tiny loosening of the knot of unworthiness that lived in her chest, a small crack in the belief that she was inherently undeserving of good treatment. It would take more than one conversation to undo years of conditioning, but this was a start.

Finally, as Riley's hands grew tired from coloring and her eyes grew heavy from the emotional exhaustion of the day, as the clock on the wall showed that it was well past her normal bedtime, Billie helped her tuck Finley beside her on the couch. The plushie was positioned carefully, its worn fabric familiar and comforting, its presence a constant Riley could rely on.

"Time to get cozy for bed," Billie whispered, her voice pitched perfectly for this tender transition moment. "You've done so well tonight. I'm really proud of you for being so brave, for letting me sit with you, for sharing even a little bit about how you're feeling. That took courage."

Riley nodded softly, her eyes heavy-lidded but calm, the fear of the day fading into the background, replaced by a fragile, growing sense of safety. It was tentative still, capable of shattering with the wrong word or gesture, but it was real. For the first time since the incident with Finneas that morning, she felt something other than pure fear. She felt... maybe not happy, but peaceful. Not safe exactly, but safer.

"Will you..." Riley started, then stopped, uncertain if she was allowed to ask for things, if her needs mattered enough to voice them.

"Will I what, sweetheart?" Billie prompted gently, making it clear that questions were welcome, that needs could be expressed without fear of rejection.

"Will you stay? Until I fall asleep?" The words came out in a rush, as if Riley was afraid she'd lose her courage if she didn't say them all at once.

Billie smiled, warm and genuine, feeling her heart squeeze with tenderness. "Of course I will. I'll stay right here for as long as you need me. I'm not going anywhere."

Riley's expression showed relief so profound it was almost painful to witness. She settled deeper into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket tighter around herself, clutching Finley close but no longer using him as armor. Billie adjusted her position slightly to be more comfortable for what might be a long vigil, making it clear through her body language that she was committed to staying, that this wasn't an imposition or burden.

She began to hum softly, a gentle melody without words, something soothing and rhythmic that might help ease Riley into sleep. Her hand moved to rest lightly on Riley's back, over the blanket, providing just enough physical contact to be comforting without being overwhelming. She could feel the child's breathing gradually slowing, deepening, the tension draining from her small body as exhaustion finally overcame hypervigilance.

Maggie appeared in the doorway again, this time with a pillow and a lighter blanket, wordlessly offering them to Billie so she could be more comfortable during her vigil. Billie accepted them with grateful silence, arranging them so Riley would be properly supported and warm. Maggie gave her a look of profound gratitude—thank you for reaching her, for giving her this gift of peace, for having the patience we couldn't quite manage—before disappearing back into the house.

Riley drifted slowly toward sleep, fighting it for a while because sleep meant vulnerability, meant losing control, meant potential danger. But the exhaustion was too great, and the environment felt safe enough that her body was finally willing to surrender consciousness. Her breathing deepened into the rhythms of sleep, her face relaxing into an expression of peace that probably hadn't graced it in days or weeks.

Billie stayed beside her, watching her sleep, careful not to intrude on this vulnerable state but present enough to provide security if Riley woke disoriented or frightened. She watched the rise and fall of the child's chest, the slight movements of her eyes beneath closed lids that suggested dreaming, the way her fingers remained loosely curled around Finley's fin even in sleep.

The house was quiet now, fully settled into night. The tension of the morning felt like a distant memory, something that had happened in another lifetime rather than just twelve hours ago. And for the first time since she arrived at this foster home, perhaps for the first time in years, Riley felt—if only in this moment, if only in the deepest parts of her sleeping consciousness—that she truly belonged somewhere, that she was safe, that someone cared whether she lived or died or suffered or healed.

Billie leaned back slightly against the couch, getting more comfortable for what would be a long night. She wasn't going anywhere. She had promised, and she kept her promises, especially to children who had been let down too many times before. She would stay here on this couch, maintaining her vigil, being the anchor Riley needed whether the child was awake to appreciate it or not.

Through the windows, she could see the stars growing brighter as the last ambient light faded from the sky. The world outside was vast and dark, but inside this living room, illuminated by soft lamplight, there was warmth and safety and the beginning of trust. It wasn't much in the grand scheme of things—one quiet evening, one small child feeling a moment of peace—but it was everything. It was the foundation upon which healing could be built, the first brick in a structure of trust and security that Riley so desperately needed.

Billie thought about all the children she had worked with over the years, all the small moments of connection that had led to larger transformations. She thought about her own childhood, her own need for someone to simply sit with her without judgment or demand. She thought about how little it really took to make a difference—just presence, patience, and the willingness to meet someone exactly where they were without trying to rush them forward.

As the night deepened and the house fell into the deepest quiet of late evening, as Riley slept peacefully beside her and the world outside settled into stillness, Billie felt a profound sense of rightness. This was why she did this work, why she chose again and again to sit with traumatized children in their darkest moments. For this: the privilege of witnessing the first tentative steps toward healing, the honor of being trusted even fractionally by someone who had every reason not to trust anyone.

She continued her vigil through the night, dozing occasionally but always maintaining enough awareness to sense if Riley needed her. And Riley slept on, safe and protected, her small body finally at rest, her nightmares held at bay by the simple presence of someone who cared, someone who stayed, someone who proved through action that maybe—just maybe—the world could be trusted after all.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun climbed higher, washing the backyard in golden warmth that seemed to seep into everything—the grass, the old wooden fence, the blanket where Riley and Billie sat in companionable silence. Time moved differently here, stretched and languid, as if the universe itself had decided to slow down just for them. There was no rush, no pressure, no ticking clock demanding they be anywhere else or do anything more than simply exist together in this small pocket of peace.

Riley's pencil moved across the paper in hesitant strokes, creating waves that looked more like jagged teeth at first, but gradually smoothed into something more rhythmic, more intentional. Drawing gave her hands something to do, kept them from twisting anxiously in her lap or picking at the frayed edges of her hoodie. It was a form of communication that didn't require words, didn't require her to look anyone in the eye or explain the tangled mess of feelings that lived inside her chest.

Billie watched the clouds drift overhead, their shapes morphing and shifting in the gentle breeze. She identified a dragon, then a sailing ship, then something that might have been a giant's face or just a random collection of water vapor. It didn't matter. The act of watching, of being present without demanding anything, was its own form of care. She had learned this over years of working with traumatized children—sometimes the greatest gift you could give was simply showing up and staying, asking for nothing in return.

A bird landed on the fence post nearby, small and brown with bright, curious eyes. It cocked its head, examining these two humans spread out on their blanket with what seemed like avian judgment. Riley noticed it and stilled, her pencil hovering above the page. For a long moment, girl and bird regarded each other across the space of the yard. Then the bird chirped once, sharp and clear, before launching itself back into the sky.

"Did you see that?" Riley's voice emerged soft, almost wondering, as if the bird's visit had been a small miracle she wasn't sure had really happened.

"I did," Billie confirmed, keeping her own tone gentle and unhurried. "A house sparrow, I think. They're brave little things. Come right up close to people when they feel safe."

Riley absorbed this information, turning it over in her mind. The concept of feeling safe enough to approach was foreign to her, a luxury she had rarely been able to afford. But maybe that bird knew something she didn't. Maybe it had learned through experience that not all humans meant harm, that some could be trusted to simply watch and appreciate without trying to capture or control.

The back door opened with a soft creak, and Maggie stepped out onto the porch. She carried a tray laden with snacks—apple slices arranged in a neat fan, crackers with cheese, a small bowl of grapes that gleamed like jewels in the sunlight. Her presence immediately changed the energy of the space, not in a bad way necessarily, but in a way that made Riley's shoulders tense slightly, her guard coming back up by instinct.

"Thought you two might want something to nibble on," Maggie said, her voice carefully cheerful but not overwhelming. She had been briefed by Billie on how to approach Riley—slowly, gently, always giving the child an escape route and never cornering her with too much attention or affection. It went against every maternal instinct Maggie possessed, but she trusted Billie's expertise and had seen enough foster children come through her home to know that one-size-fits-all parenting didn't work.

She set the tray down on the edge of the blanket, not too close to Riley, giving her space to decide whether to engage with the offering. "I'll just leave this here. Help yourselves whenever you're ready." Then, with admirable restraint, she turned and went back inside without lingering or making a big production of her generosity.

Riley waited until the door closed completely before even looking at the tray. Her stomach rumbled quietly, reminding her that pancakes had been hours ago and her growing body needed fuel. But accepting food still felt complicated, tangled up with obligation and debt and the unspoken rules about what you might owe someone when they gave you things.

Billie reached over and plucked a grape from the bowl, popping it into her mouth with casual ease. "Maggie makes the best snack trays," she commented to no one in particular. "Always gets the proportions right—not too much of any one thing, good variety." She selected an apple slice next, crunching into it with satisfaction.

The casual normalcy of it helped. Billie wasn't making a big deal, wasn't watching to see if Riley would eat, wasn't hovering with concern or expectation. She was just eating because food was there and she was hungry, modeling behavior without forcing it.

Slowly, Riley reached out and took a cracker. Then another. Then a piece of cheese that she nibbled in tiny bites, making it last. The food was good—fresh and thoughtfully prepared—and each bite settled into her stomach with comforting weight. She took a few grapes, their sweetness bursting on her tongue, washing away some of the lingering anxiety that had taken up permanent residence in her mouth.

They ate in silence for a while, the afternoon stretching around them. A lawnmower hummed in some distant yard. A dog barked twice, then fell silent. Life continued its ordinary rhythms, and for once Riley felt like she was part of it rather than watching from the outside, always separate, always apart.

"Can I ask you something?" Riley's voice emerged hesitant, uncertain whether questions were allowed, whether her curiosity might be seen as intrusive or inappropriate.

"Always," Billie responded immediately, setting down her apple slice and giving Riley her full attention without making it feel heavy or intense. "You can ask me anything, anytime. I might not always have an answer, but I'll always listen to the question."

Riley picked at a thread on the blanket, gathering courage. "Why did you decide to do this? Work with kids like me, I mean. Isn't it..." she struggled for the right word, "...hard?"

Billie considered the question seriously, giving it the weight it deserved rather than offering some pat, meaningless answer designed to make the asker feel better. "It is hard," she acknowledged honestly. "Really hard sometimes. I've cried more times than I can count. Lost sleep. Felt helpless and frustrated and angry at a world that lets kids get hurt."

Riley looked up, surprised by the frank admission. Adults usually pretended everything was fine, that they had it all together, that nothing ever affected them.

"But," Billie continued, her voice taking on a different quality—something warm and deep and true, "it's also the most important thing I've ever done. When I was a kid, I had someone show up for me when I needed it most. They didn't fix everything—nobody can do that—but they gave me a safe place to exist while I figured out how to fix myself. They taught me that I mattered, that my pain was real, that I deserved better than what I'd been given."

She paused, picking at the grass beside the blanket, her own memories clearly playing across her inner screen. "I guess I decided that if someone did that for me, I wanted to do it for others. Pay it forward, you know? Be the person who shows up, who stays, who reminds kids that they're worth fighting for even when everything in their life has told them otherwise."

Riley absorbed this, processing the vulnerability Billie was offering. It made her real in a way that was both comforting and slightly scary. Real people could be hurt. Real people could leave, could change their minds, could decide you weren't worth the trouble after all.

"What if..." Riley started, then stopped, afraid to voice the fear that had been circling her thoughts like a shark in dark water.

"What if what?" Billie prompted gently, no pressure in her tone, just open invitation.

"What if I mess up? What if I'm too broken to fix? What if you try and try and I just... can't get better?" The words tumbled out in a rush, riding on the wave of anxiety that had been building since the question first formed.

Billie shifted on the blanket, turning to face Riley more directly but still maintaining enough distance that it didn't feel confrontational. Her expression was serious, thoughtful, radiating a kind of steady certainty that Riley desperately needed to hear.

"First," Billie said, her voice firm but gentle, "you're not broken. You're hurt. There's a big difference. Broken things can't be fixed, but hurt things can heal. It takes time, and it's not a straight line, and some scars stay with you forever—but that doesn't make you broken. It makes you human."

She let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "Second, there's no such thing as 'messing up' in healing. There are setbacks, sure. Bad days, hard moments, times when you feel like you're going backward instead of forward. But that's all part of the process. Healing isn't neat or clean or predictable. It's messy and complicated and sometimes it looks like you're falling apart before you can come back together."

Riley's eyes were bright with unshed tears, her throat working as she tried to swallow the emotion threatening to overwhelm her.

"And third," Billie finished, her voice dropping to something almost fierce in its intensity, "you don't have to 'get better' for me to care about you. You don't have to earn my support or my presence. You just have to be you—exactly as you are right now, in this moment. Scared, hurt, uncertain—all of it. That's enough. You're enough."

The tears spilled over then, running down Riley's cheeks in silent streams. She didn't sob or make noise, just let them fall, too exhausted to hold them back anymore. Billie didn't move to comfort her physically—she knew Riley wasn't ready for hugs or physical touch from most people—but her presence alone was a comfort, solid and unwavering, a promise made manifest.

Minutes passed. The tears slowed, then stopped. Riley wiped her face with her sleeve, leaving damp patches on the fabric. She felt raw, exposed, like she'd shown too much and was waiting for the inevitable punishment or rejection that had always followed vulnerability in the past.

But Billie just smiled, soft and accepting, and offered her a napkin from the snack tray. "Emotions are messy things," she observed mildly. "But they're also honest. I'm glad you felt safe enough to let them out here."

Riley took the napkin, dabbing at her face. The world felt different somehow—lighter, maybe, or less sharp-edged. Like crying had released some of the pressure that had been building inside her chest for longer than she could remember. She felt tired, but it was a different kind of tired than the constant exhaustion of hypervigilance. This was the tiredness that came after hard work, after pushing through something difficult and coming out the other side.

"Want to take a break from heavy stuff?" Billie asked, reading the exhaustion in Riley's posture. "We could do something totally mindless. I downloaded this ridiculous game on my phone where you just stack cats into towers. It's stupid but kind of addictive."

Riley found herself nodding, grateful for the shift, for the permission to step back from the intensity of emotion and just be a kid doing something silly. Billie pulled out her phone and opened the game, angling the screen so Riley could see. Cartoon cats in various improbable positions fell from the top of the screen, and the goal was to stack them as high as possible without the tower toppling over.

It was indeed ridiculous. The cats made absurd noises when they landed, and the physics were deliberately wonky, making the game more about luck and timing than any real skill. But it was also oddly soothing, requiring just enough attention to occupy the mind without demanding any emotional labor.

They took turns, passing the phone back and forth, laughing when a particularly precarious tower wobbled and crashed. Billie kept up a running commentary—"Oh no, not the tuxedo cat on top, he's too heavy!" or "Yes! Perfect placement! We might actually beat my high score!"—that filled the space with lightness and play. Riley found herself actually laughing at one point, a sound that surprised her with its unfamiliarity. When was the last time she had laughed? Really laughed, not the fake performance laughter she'd learned to produce on demand to make adults comfortable?

The afternoon stretched on. They played the cat game until even its simple absurdity grew tiresome, then switched to cloud watching again, making up increasingly elaborate stories about the shapes they saw. That cloud wasn't just a ship—it was a ghost ship, crewed by a band of pirates who had been cursed to sail the skies forever. That one wasn't just a dragon—it was the last dragon in existence, hiding among the clouds and only revealing itself to those pure of heart.

Riley surprised herself by contributing to the stories, her imagination—dormant for so long under the weight of survival—beginning to wake up and stretch. She invented a cloud creature that was half wolf, half eagle, called a "weagle," which made Billie laugh with genuine delight.

"A weagle!" Billie repeated, rolling the word around in her mouth. "I love it. What do weagles eat?"

Riley thought about this seriously. "Cloud berries," she decided. "They only grow on the tops of mountains, where the clouds touch the ground. They taste like... like hope and sunshine mixed together."

Billie looked at her with something like wonder. "That's beautiful, Riles. You have a real gift for this."

The compliment made Riley squirm, uncomfortable with praise but also secretly pleased. She ducked her head, hiding behind Finley, but Billie could see the small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon when Patrick appeared at the back door. He was more cautious than Maggie had been, clearly aware that he was still somewhat of an unknown quantity to Riley, potentially threatening by virtue of being male and therefore possibly dangerous. He stayed on the porch, maintaining distance.

"Hey there," he called out, voice gentle and non-intrusive. "Just wanted to let you know Finneas is back. He's staying in his room for now, but he asked if he could write Riley a letter. We read it first—it's appropriate—and we can give it to her whenever she's ready, or not at all if she'd rather not. Totally her choice."

Riley stiffened, her entire body going rigid at the mention of Finneas's name. The peace of the afternoon shattered like glass, and suddenly she was back in that moment of fear, of being yelled at, of feeling small and powerless and in danger. Her breathing quickened, chest rising and falling too fast, the beginning of panic clawing at her throat.

Billie noticed immediately and made a small gesture to Patrick—not now, give us space—which he understood instantly. He nodded and disappeared back inside without another word, leaving them alone again.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Billie said softly, not touching Riley but moving slightly closer, making her presence more tangible. "You're safe. He's not coming out here. Patrick just wanted to give you information, that's all. You don't have to do anything with it. You don't have to read any letter. You don't have to forgive or forget or do anything at all except focus on breathing right now. Can you do that with me?"

Riley couldn't speak, couldn't nod, could barely process the words through the roar of panic in her ears. But Billie's voice cut through, steady and calm, an anchor in the storm.

"In through your nose, count of four," Billie demonstrated, breathing slowly and deliberately. "One, two, three, four. Hold for four. One, two, three, four. Out through your mouth for four. One, two, three, four."

She kept repeating the pattern, her own breathing slow and visible, giving Riley something concrete to match. Gradually, incrementally, Riley's breathing began to sync with Billie's. The panic didn't disappear—it never did that quickly—but it became manageable, contained, something she could ride out rather than drown in.

Minutes passed. The breathing exercise continued. Slowly, slowly, Riley came back to herself, to the present moment, to the blanket beneath her and the grass around her and the fading sunlight painting everything gold. She was exhausted, wrung out, the panic attack having burned through whatever energy reserves she'd built up during the peaceful afternoon.

"You did great," Billie said once Riley's breathing had fully stabilized. "Panic attacks are hard, and you rode it out. That takes real strength."

Riley nodded weakly, too tired to disagree or deflect the compliment. She leaned against Billie's shoulder—the first time she'd initiated physical contact—and Billie went very still, not wanting to do anything that might make Riley pull away. She just sat there, solid and warm, letting Riley take whatever comfort she needed.

They stayed like that as the sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. The temperature dropped slightly, the evening cool beginning to settle in. Riley shivered, and Billie carefully wrapped part of the blanket around both of their shoulders, creating a small cocoon of warmth.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Billie asked after a while, when Riley seemed more settled. "Or would you rather just sit?"

Riley was quiet for a long moment, wrestling with herself. Part of her wanted to retreat, to go back to her room and hide under the covers and pretend none of this had happened. But another part—a newer, braver part that was just beginning to emerge—wanted to try. Wanted to put words to the fear, to make it real outside her own head, to see if sharing the burden made it lighter.

"I'm scared of him," she whispered finally, the admission feeling both terrifying and relieving. "I know everyone says he's sorry, that he didn't mean it, but... I can't stop feeling like he's going to do it again. Like any second he's going to start yelling and I'll be trapped and..." she couldn't finish, the words catching in her throat.

"That makes complete sense," Billie affirmed immediately. "He hurt you. Your brain is trying to protect you by staying alert for danger. That's not wrong or bad—that's survival. Your fear is valid, Riley. You don't have to forgive him just because other people want you to. You don't have to feel safe around him just because they say you should."

Riley looked up at her, surprise evident in her expression. "I don't?"

"Absolutely not," Billie said firmly. "Forgiveness is personal. Safety is earned, not demanded. You get to decide who you trust and when and how much. Nobody else gets to make that call for you."

This was revolutionary information for Riley, who had spent most of her life being told what to think and feel, being forced to accept apologies she didn't believe and forgive transgressions that still hurt. The idea that she had autonomy over her own emotional responses was both empowering and slightly terrifying.

"What if they get mad at me?" she asked, voicing the fear that followed close behind. "What if they decide I'm too difficult and send me somewhere else?"

Billie shook her head. "Maggie and Patrick aren't like that. I've worked with them for years, and I've seen them with dozens of foster kids. They understand trauma. They know healing isn't neat or convenient or quick. They're not going to punish you for having feelings."

"But what if—"

"Riley," Billie interrupted gently but firmly, "I can't promise you that nothing bad will ever happen again. I can't guarantee that you'll never be hurt or disappointed or let down. Life doesn't work that way. But I can promise you that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, and that Maggie and Patrick are committed to the same thing. We're not perfect, and we'll make mistakes, but we're trying. Really trying. And we're not going anywhere just because things get hard."

Riley wanted desperately to believe her. Wanted to let go of the constant vigilance, the waiting for the other shoe to drop, the certainty that any good thing would inevitably be taken away. But years of experience had taught her otherwise, and trust wasn't something that could be rebuilt with words alone, no matter how sincere they were.

Still, she found herself nodding, a tiny increment of acceptance. Maybe not full belief, not yet, but a willingness to consider the possibility. And for now, that was enough.

The sky had deepened to purple by the time they finally gathered up the blanket and the empty snack tray and headed inside. The house was warm and smelled like dinner—something with garlic and herbs that made Riley's stomach rumble despite the snacks she'd eaten earlier. She could hear Maggie humming in the kitchen, hear the low murmur of Patrick's voice from somewhere upstairs, hear the ordinary sounds of a family home at evening.

Finneas's door was closed, no light visible underneath. He was keeping his promise to stay out of sight, to give Riley space. Part of her was relieved. Part of her felt guilty for disrupting the household, for being the problem that required everyone else to adjust. The guilt was irrational—she knew that intellectually—but it persisted anyway, a familiar companion that whispered poison in her ear.

Chapter Text

The day felt quieter than usual — like the house itself was holding its breath.
Maggie had gone out early for errands, Patrick was in his office, and Billie had taken Riley to the park that morning to feed ducks and sit by the water. It was… nice. Peaceful. Almost normal.

Now, back home, Riley was sitting on her bed again, Finley tucked under her arm, staring at the small white envelope resting beside her pillow.

Her name — Riley — written in shaky, uneven handwriting.
The letters pressed too hard into the paper, as if the person who wrote them didn’t know how to hold back.

She didn’t need to ask who it was from. Maggie had told her quietly earlier that Finneas wanted her to have it. He wasn’t home. He’d gone to stay with a friend for a few days to “cool off,” as Patrick said.

The idea of him still made Riley’s stomach twist.

She hadn’t wanted to take the envelope at first. She’d just stared at it until Billie gently said,
“You don’t have to read it. Not unless you want to.”

But now she was here, in the soft dimness of her room, the air still and heavy, the envelope like it was staring at her.

Her hands shook as she reached for it.

She turned it over, thumb running along the sealed edge.
Her chest ached.

Finally, she tore it open.

---

Finneas’s Letter

Riley,

I don’t really know how to start this. I’ve never written a letter like this before, and honestly, I don’t even know if you’ll read it. You probably shouldn’t trust anything I say right now, and that’s fair. I messed up. I know that.

I shouted at you. I scared you. And the truth is, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were just… there. Quiet, trying to exist, and I made you feel like you shouldn’t. That’s on me. 100%. No excuses.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot since Mom and Dad talked to me. I didn’t realize how loud I sounded — or how that kind of loudness might mean something completely different to someone like you. I grew up in this house. I always knew it was safe here. But you didn’t. You don’t have that yet. And I think I made it worse.

When I saw you flinch, it kind of hit me in the stomach. Not right away — I wish it had been right away, but I was still too angry, too full of my own noise. Later, though… it stuck in my head. You covering your ears. You shaking. I can’t forget it.

Mom said that sometimes people’s fear isn’t about the moment — it’s about everything that came before it. And I guess I didn’t understand that until now. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I do know that I added to it, and that’s something I’ll carry for a while.

I’m not writing this to ask for forgiveness. You don’t owe me that. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry. For real. And that I’m going to try to do better. I don’t know what that looks like yet — I’m still learning. But I’ll start by being quiet when you need quiet. And by giving you space when you need it.

You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t even have to look at me. But if someday you feel like you can, I’ll be here — and I promise I won’t raise my voice again.

Also… Billie told me about Finley. He’s cute. You’ve got good taste in sharks.

– Finneas

---

Riley stared at the paper long after she finished reading. The words blurred a little as her eyes filled. She didn’t cry, exactly. It was more like her body didn’t know what to do with the feeling.

It wasn’t relief, not yet.
It wasn’t forgiveness either.
It was… something else. Something smaller, quieter. Like standing at the edge of something she wasn’t sure she could cross yet.

She folded the letter carefully, her hands trembling slightly. For a second, she thought about hiding it under her pillow — but then she hesitated.

Billie would want to know she read it. Not to pry. Just to be there.

She found Billie sitting in the living room, reading with her legs tucked up, hair messy as always, oversized jumper sleeves swallowing her hands.

Billie looked up as Riley entered, her eyes instantly soft. “Hey, you okay?”

Riley held out the letter wordlessly. Billie blinked, gently set her book aside, and took it. “You read it?”

Riley nodded, small and unsure. “He… said sorry.”

Billie’s expression softened even more, but she didn’t speak right away. She unfolded the paper, scanned it quietly, then folded it again, handing it back.

“That was good of him,” she said softly. “Doesn’t fix everything… but it’s a start.”

Riley sat beside her, hugging Finley tight. “He scared me,” she whispered. “I… I thought he was gonna—”
Her voice broke off, unfinished.

Billie reached out gently, resting a hand over Riley’s. Not squeezing. Just grounding.
“He won’t,” she promised. “Not ever again.”

Riley nodded, pressing Finley against her face. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. Just soft. Shared. Real.

After a while, Billie spoke again, quieter. “You don’t have to decide what to feel yet, okay? You can take your time. Healing isn’t about rushing.”

Riley exhaled shakily, leaning ever so slightly against her. “…okay.”

Billie smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Proud of you, shark girl.”

That made Riley’s lips twitch — not quite a smile, but close enough.

She looked down at the letter in her lap. The handwriting was messy and awkward, but it was also… honest.

Maybe that was enough for now.

Chapter Text

The morning light cut through Riley's blinds in thin, sharp lines, stabbing across her bed like an accusation. Each sliver of brightness felt too harsh, too real, dragging her from the murky depths of a restless sleep into something far worse: consciousness.

She jolted awake, heart thundering so violently she could feel it in her throat, in her fingertips, in the hollow space behind her ribs where fear lived like a permanent resident. Her eyes snapped open, unfocused and wild, scanning the familiar contours of her bedroom—the posters on the wall featuring her favorite bands, the pile of clothes in the corner she'd been meaning to fold for days, the nightstand cluttered with hair ties and half-empty water bottles and a book she'd started three times but never finished. Everything was the same. Everything was exactly as she'd left it when she'd finally collapsed into bed at two in the morning, exhausted from crying.

But something was wrong.

She could feel it in her bones, that primal instinct that separated safety from danger, the one humans had carried since the days of predators and prey. Her body knew before her mind could catch up, muscles tensing automatically, breath catching in her throat, every nerve ending firing warnings like sirens screaming through fog.

Instinctively, she curled around Finley, her arms wrapping protectively around the plush shark that had been her constant companion for longer than she could remember. His soft fabric pressed against her cheek, the familiar texture grounding her, anchoring her to something solid when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control. The stitched smile on his face remained cheerful and unwavering, a stark contrast to the panic building in her chest like a pressure cooker about to explode.

Finley smelled like home—like her lavender detergent and the faint sweetness of her coconut shampoo and something indefinably her. She buried her nose deeper into the plushie, trying to block out the world, trying to pretend that if she held him tight enough, reality would stop pressing in from all sides, demanding her attention, demanding she face things she wasn't ready to face.

The shark had been a gift from Billie on her seventh birthday, back when birthdays were still magical occasions full of cake and laughter and the simple joy of being a kid who believed the world was fundamentally good. Back before she learned that good things could turn bad, that people could change, that safety was an illusion that could shatter in an instant.

She'd named him Finley because she'd been obsessed with wordplay even then, delighting in the pun of a shark named after his most distinctive feature. Billie had laughed so hard she'd snorted, which had made Riley laugh, which had made their mom laugh, and the memory was preserved in her mind like a photograph—crystalline and perfect and completely inaccessible now, separated from her present reality by an unbridgeable chasm of pain.

But then she heard it.

From downstairs, a subtle shift in the floorboards made her stomach clench violently, acid rising in her throat, burning and bitter. The sound was so faint someone else might have missed it, might have dismissed it as the house settling, the normal creaks and groans of an old building adjusting to the changing temperature as morning warmed the walls. But Riley knew every sound this house made. She'd memorized them over years of listening, of cataloging which steps creaked and which didn't, which doors made noise when they opened and which could be opened silently if you lifted up while turning the handle, where someone could walk to stay silent and where the floorboards would betray your presence.

These were footsteps. Human footsteps. Heavy ones.

Not hurried, not loud, but heavy enough to announce that someone was moving through the house with purpose. Each step sent a fresh wave of nausea through her system, her stomach churning, her mouth filling with saliva the way it did right before she got sick. Her fingers clutched Finley tighter, nails digging into the soft fabric hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indentations that wouldn't fade for hours.

Please no please no please no—

The prayer repeated in her mind like a mantra, desperate and useless. She didn't even know who she was praying to. She'd stopped believing in God around the same time she'd stopped believing her family could ever be fixed.

A voice followed, faint but unmistakable, drifting up through the floorboards like smoke, seeping through the cracks, contaminating the air in her sanctuary:

"…Riley?"

Her chest locked completely. The air in her lungs turned solid, immovable, trapped behind a wall of pure terror that cut off her oxygen as effectively as a hand around her throat. Every muscle in her body screamed don't move, don't breathe, don't let him see you, don't let him know you're here, disappear, vanish, cease to exist, become nothing, become invisible, become gone—

She recognized that voice. Of course she did. How could she not? It haunted her nightmares, echoed in her memories, attached itself to every moment of fear she'd experienced over the past few years like a soundtrack to her trauma. The tone was different now—tentative, careful, almost gentle—but the voice itself was unmistakable.

Finneas.

Her brother.

The person she used to look up to, used to follow around like a shadow, used to think hung the moon and stars. Before. Before everything changed. Before the yelling started, before the anger became something living and dangerous, before she learned that the people you love most could become the people you fear most. Before the slammed doors and the holes punched in walls and the way he could make her feel small with just a look, worthless with just a word.

She remembered a different Finneas—the one who'd taught her to ride a bike, running beside her with his hand on the seat, promising he wouldn't let go (and keeping that promise, unlike so many others). The one who'd stayed up with her when she had nightmares about monsters under the bed, telling her stories until she fell back asleep, protecting her from imaginary threats with the confidence of an older brother who thought he could keep her safe from anything.

That Finneas felt like a different person now. A ghost. Someone who'd died and been replaced by this stranger who wore his face but radiated danger instead of safety.

Her fingers clutched Finley like a lifeline, nails digging deeper into the soft fabric, teeth gritted so hard her jaw ached with the strain. She could taste blood where she'd bitten the inside of her cheek without realizing it, the metallic tang coating her tongue.

"…Riley," the voice tried again, hesitant, low, careful. Each word felt like it was coated in broken glass, sharp edges hidden beneath a veneer of gentleness. "…I just… I wanted to say hi."

Her stomach lurched violently, and for a horrible moment she thought she might actually be sick right there in her bed. The room tilted sideways, or maybe she did—she couldn't tell anymore, couldn't distinguish between physical reality and the vertigo of panic. Everything felt wrong, tilted, off-balance, like the entire world had shifted three degrees to the left and only she could feel it.

Say hi? The words ricocheted around her skull, absurd and infuriating and terrifying all at once. Like everything was normal. Like he could just walk back into this house, back into her life, back into her space, and pretend the past didn't exist. Like casual greetings could erase the weight of everything unsaid, everything broken, everything that couldn't be fixed with a simple "hi" or an "I'm sorry" or any combination of words in the English language.

Like she hadn't spent the last eight months building walls around herself, brick by careful brick, creating defenses designed specifically to keep him out. Like those walls didn't matter. Like her boundaries didn't matter. Like she didn't matter.

Panic coiled in her chest like a living thing, tightening with each passing second, wrapping around her lungs like a constrictor snake. She didn't move. She couldn't. Her body had gone into some kind of survival mode, an ancient defense mechanism that froze her in place, making her small, making her invisible, making her prey hoping the predator would lose interest and move on.

If she stayed perfectly still, maybe he'd go away. Maybe he'd give up. Maybe she could disappear into the mattress, sink through the floor, cease to exist entirely. Maybe if she wanted it badly enough, she could achieve spontaneous invisibility through sheer force of will.

Her mind raced back to every time she'd flinched at a voice, a shout, a sudden step—all those moments she'd tried to disappear into herself, to make herself smaller, quieter, less noticeable, less of a target. She'd gotten good at it over the years. Too good. The art of vanishing while still technically being present, of erasing herself from rooms while her body remained, of becoming so quiet and still that people forgot she was there.

It was a survival skill she'd honed with the dedication of a craftsman perfecting their trade. She could read a room in seconds, gauge the emotional temperature, adjust her behavior accordingly. She knew how to make herself invisible when danger walked in, how to slip away without being noticed, how to become background noise in her own life.

And here he was. Finneas. Back. Home. The word felt bitter and wrong, like spoiled milk coating her tongue. This was supposed to be her safe space, her refuge, the one place where she didn't have to constantly monitor every sound, every movement, every shift in the atmosphere. The one place where she could breathe without permission, exist without apology, just be without calculating the cost.

And he didn't care. He'd just walked right in, invaded it, contaminated it with his presence like a virus spreading through the house, making every room unsafe, every corner suspect, every moment potentially dangerous.

The injustice of it burned in her chest alongside the fear, a toxic mixture that made her feel simultaneously paralyzed and like she might explode out of her skin. She wanted to scream. Wanted to throw things. Wanted to demand why she was the one hiding in her own room, why she was the one whose space had been invaded, why his comfort and his homecoming mattered more than her safety and her peace.

But she couldn't. She never could. Her voice always failed her when she needed it most, locked away behind layers of fear and conditioning and the learned helplessness that came from years of not being heard.

She pressed Finley harder against her face, trying to use him as a shield against reality. The shark's stitched features pressed into her skin, the texture familiar and comforting even through her panic. She could feel each individual stitch if she focused, count them, use them as an anchor to the present moment instead of drowning in the past or being dragged into an uncertain future.

Breathe, she told herself, but her lungs refused to cooperate. Breathe breathe breathe—

The word repeated in her mind like a broken record, but her chest remained tight, locked, her diaphragm refusing to move properly. She managed tiny sips of air, barely enough to keep her conscious, definitely not enough to calm down. Her heart continued its frantic percussion, a drum solo that seemed determined to beat its way out of her ribcage.

And then, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, like the eye of a hurricane bringing temporary peace, Billie's calm presence entered the doorway.

Riley didn't have to look up to know it was her. She could feel it—the way the air in the room shifted, the way the suffocating pressure eased just slightly, the way her body instinctively recognized safety even through layers of panic. It was the same way animals could sense weather changes before they happened, a sixth sense developed through necessity and repetition.

"Riles," Billie said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, careful not to crowd her, careful not to add to the overwhelming sensory input already threatening to drown Riley completely.

There was no judgment in that single word, no frustration or disappointment or any of the complicated emotions Riley had learned to hear in people's voices. Just acknowledgment. Just presence. Just I see you, I'm here, you're not alone.

Billie stayed in the doorway, not rushing forward, not demanding anything, not touching her or invading her space or assuming permission she hadn't been given. Just present. Just there. A steady, unwavering point of stability in a world that had tilted sideways and refused to right itself.

"I'm right here," Billie continued, her tone gentle but firm, layered with unspoken promises that she'd kept a thousand times before. "You're safe."

The words should have been comforting, but Riley felt them bounce off the armor of her panic like arrows off a shield. Safe. The word felt foreign, a concept she understood intellectually but couldn't quite access emotionally. How could she be safe when he was downstairs? How could anywhere in this house be safe anymore?

Riley's hands tightened reflexively on Finley, pressing the plushie harder against her face until the fabric pressed into her nose and mouth, until she was breathing through it, the scent of detergent and home and safety filling her lungs even as her chest continued to hitch with suppressed panic.

She didn't look up. Didn't trust herself to. If she looked at Billie, she might start crying, and if she started crying, she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop. The tears felt dammed up behind her eyes, an ocean of unshed grief and fear and anger pressing against a failing levee, and maintaining that dam required every ounce of concentration she possessed.

Her breaths came in shallow, ragged bursts that burned in her chest, each one feeling insufficient, inadequate, like trying to breathe through a straw or underwater or through layers of plastic wrap. Not enough air. Never enough air.

Billie moved carefully into the room, each step deliberate and slow, telegraphing her movements the way you would around a frightened animal so Riley wouldn't be startled. She'd learned this over time—how to approach Riley when she was like this, what worked and what made things worse, the delicate dance of offering support without overwhelming.

She crouched just enough to meet Riley's gaze gently when she finally glanced up, her eyes full of understanding and something fiercer—a protective determination that said no one gets through me to hurt you, not him, not anyone, over my dead body.

"You don't have to do anything," Billie said, each word measured and sincere, spaced out to give Riley time to process them individually. "Not now. Not ever. I'm right here."

The words should have been comforting, permission to opt out of the impossible situation unfolding in their house. But Riley felt them bounce off the armor of her panic, unable to penetrate the layers of fear that had calcified around her heart like scar tissue.

Her throat felt too tight to speak, too constricted to form coherent sounds, her vocal cords locked in place. When she finally managed to whisper, her voice came out broken and small, barely recognizable as her own:

"…I can't…"

Just two words, but they carried the weight of everything she couldn't articulate—all the fear, the memories, the complicated tangle of emotions she didn't have names for. The impossibility of what was being asked of her, even though no one was actually asking anything. The absolute certainty that she could not, would not, should not have to face him. The bone-deep knowledge that she wasn't strong enough, wasn't brave enough, wasn't enough.

"I know," Billie said immediately, steady and unwavering as a lighthouse in a storm, her voice the rope Riley could grab onto in the darkness. Her presence was a tangible thing, warm and solid and real in a world that felt increasingly unreal. "You don't have to. It's okay to be scared."

Permission. That's what Billie was giving her. Permission to feel what she was feeling without judgment, without pressure to be different, to be braver, to be better, to be the person everyone wanted her to be instead of the terrified girl she actually was. Just permission to be, exactly as she was in this moment, broken and scared and clutching a stuffed shark like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.

Riley's eyes stung with unshed tears, burning behind her eyelids like hot coals. She blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back, trying to maintain some semblance of control over her own body and emotions, but a few escaped anyway, leaving hot trails down her cheeks and dampening Finley's fabric where her face pressed against him.

The tears felt like failure. Like proof she was weak, broken, unable to handle normal family situations that other people navigated without falling apart. Other people had complicated relationships with their siblings and managed to exist in the same house without having panic attacks. What was wrong with her that she couldn't?

Downstairs, Finneas shifted. The scrape of a foot on the hardwood echoed faintly up the stairs, and Riley froze completely, every muscle locking simultaneously like someone had pressed a pause button on her existence. Her entire body went rigid, breath stopping mid-inhale, fingers clenching around Finley hard enough to hurt.

She held herself perfectly still, barely breathing, willing herself into invisibility with every fiber of her being, every cell in her body screaming don't see me don't see me don't see me.

Please don't come up here please don't come up here please don't—

The prayer repeated frantically in her mind, desperate and useless, a mantra against the inevitable. She could picture him at the bottom of the stairs, one foot on the first step, hand on the railing, looking up toward her room. The image was so vivid it felt real, felt like it was happening even though she couldn't see it, conjured by a brain determined to provide worst-case scenarios with cinematic clarity.

She could feel the tension like a tangible wall between them, thick and suffocating, pressing down on her chest with physical weight. The distance between upstairs and downstairs felt simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. Miles and inches at the same time. The house suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in, every room contaminated by his presence, every breath of air he'd exhaled now circulating through the vents into her space.

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. She was trapped in her own house, in her own room, in her own body that refused to stop panicking.

Billie stayed exactly where she was, eyes soft but alert, her posture relaxed but ready to move if needed. She could feel Riley's panic vibrating through the air like a frequency only they could hear, could sense it like a storm pressing against the walls, electricity crackling invisible in the space between them.

Years of knowing Riley, of learning to read her tells, of paying attention to the subtle shifts in her breathing and posture and expression, made Billie fluent in the language of her sister's fear. She could read Riley like sheet music, anticipate the crescendos of panic before they fully hit, knew when to speak and when silence was better.

"Just breathe," Billie murmured, her voice a gentle anchor in the chaos, a rope thrown to someone drowning. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's all you need to do right now. Just breathe. Nothing else matters. Just breathing."

Riley tried. God, she tried. Each exhale shuddered in her chest, ragged and uneven, catching on sobs she was desperately trying to suppress, but she kept breathing anyway because Billie told her to and some part of her brain still functioned enough to follow simple instructions. In. Out. In. Out. Focusing on the simple mechanics of it, using it as something concrete to hold onto when everything else felt like it was dissolving into chaos.

The seconds stretched out, each one feeling like an eternity, time moving differently in crisis the way it always did. Riley counted her breaths, used them to measure time, to ground herself in the present moment instead of spiraling into memories or projecting into frightening futures.

One breath. Two breaths. Three.

Downstairs, she could hear muffled sounds—Finneas moving around, maybe in the kitchen. The familiar domestic sounds felt wrong, invasive, a violation of the space that was supposed to be hers. The clink of a glass. The opening and closing of a cabinet. The rush of water from the tap. Normal sounds that should be comforting but instead set her teeth on edge, made her want to scream, made every nerve ending fire warning signals.

He was making himself comfortable. Making himself at home. Because it was his home too, technically, even though he'd been gone for months, even though his absence had made the house breathable again, made it a place where Riley could exist without constantly looking over her shoulder.

Finneas stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hand resting on the bannister, staring up toward Riley's room like he could see through the ceiling and walls to where she was hiding. His jaw was tight, frustration and guilt warring on his face in an expression that would have been fascinating to a neutral observer but meant nothing to Riley, who couldn't see it and wouldn't have cared if she could.

He'd practiced this. Driven for six hours rehearsing what he'd say, how he'd say it, imagining a dozen different versions of this reunion. None of them had included Riley refusing to even acknowledge his presence, hiding in her room like he was some kind of monster.

The thought stung more than he wanted to admit. Monster. Is that what she thought? Is that who he'd become in her mind?

He knew things had gotten bad before he left. Knew he'd said things he shouldn't have, done things he regretted, let his anger get the better of him more times than he could count. But he'd been dealing with his own shit—the pressure of the music industry, the constant scrutiny, the feeling of drowning under expectations he never asked for. None of that was an excuse, he knew that now, but at the time it had felt like explanation enough.

He'd spent eight months in therapy, working through his anger issues, learning coping mechanisms, trying to become someone his family could be proud of again. Someone his sister wouldn't be afraid of.

But maybe he'd waited too long. Maybe the damage was irreversible. Maybe some things, once broken, couldn't be fixed.

"Riley," he called up again, softer this time, trying to inject warmth into his voice, trying to sound like the brother he used to be instead of the one he'd become. "I know you're scared. I get it. But I… I've changed. I'm getting help. I just want to talk."

Silence greeted him. Complete, total silence, the kind that felt deliberately constructed, intentional rather than natural.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. In his head, Riley would've been hesitant but willing to listen, would've given him a chance to explain, to apologize, to show her he was different now. In his head, they could start rebuilding the relationship they'd once had, brick by careful brick.

He hadn't factored in the possibility that she might refuse to even see him. That she might be so scared she couldn't function. That his presence alone could be traumatizing enough to send her into a full panic attack.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He'd done that. His actions, his words, his anger—he'd turned himself into someone his baby sister was terrified of. The weight of that knowledge settled on his shoulders like a physical burden, heavy and inescapable.

Upstairs, Riley heard him call again and felt her panic spike even higher, reaching new peaks she didn't think were possible. Her breathing became even more ragged, her chest heaving with the effort of trying to get enough air, spots dancing in her vision from hyperventilation.

"Riles," Billie said urgently but calmly, moving closer now, close enough to touch if Riley wanted it. "Look at me. Focus on me. He's not coming up here. I won't let him. You're safe. I promise."

Riley's wild eyes found Billie's, clinging to them like a lifeline. Billie's face was calm, certain, unshakeable in her conviction. She radiated a confidence that Riley desperately wanted to borrow, to absorb through proximity.

"I know," Billie said softly, holding Riley's gaze, letting her see the truth written in her expression. "I know it's hard. I know you're scared. And you don't have to see him. Not now. Not ever, if that's what you need. But you're safe. I'm right here, and nothing—nothing—is going to hurt you. Okay?"

Riley wanted to believe her. Wanted to let those words sink in and wash away the panic like tide pulling back from shore. But fear had logic all its own, and it whispered that nowhere was safe, that he could come up the stairs anytime, that Billie couldn't actually stop him if he decided he wanted to talk to Riley regardless of what she wanted.

"He won't," Billie said, reading her mind the way she always could. "He won't come up here. And if he tries, he'll have to go through me first, and I promise you, Riles, I won't let that happen."

There was steel in Billie's voice now, a fierce protectiveness that left no room for doubt. This wasn't a comforting lie told to make Riley feel better. This was a promise, backed by every ounce of Billie's willpower and determination.

Riley's trembling eased slightly, from earthquake-level shaking to just tremors. Not gone, not close to gone, but softened fractionally. Her death grip on Finley loosened enough that her knuckles stopped being white.

"That's it," Billie encouraged gently. "You're doing great. Just keep breathing. In and out. You've got this."

Minutes passed. Neither of them moved. Billie stayed crouched beside the bed, a steady presence, while Riley focused entirely on the simple act of breathing, counting each inhale and exhale, using Billie's calm as an anchor.

Downstairs, the sounds of movement had stopped. Either Finneas had given up calling for her, or he'd moved to a different part of the house. Either way, the immediate threat of him coming upstairs seemed to have passed, and Riley felt the tiniest bit of tension release from her shoulders.

Finneas took a slow, uncertain step forward toward the stairs, then stopped. He could feel the resistance radiating from upstairs like a physical force. Could imagine Riley up there, terrified, and the image made something twist painfully in his chest.

He'd come here to fix things. To apologize. To try to rebuild what he'd broken. But maybe that wasn't his choice to make. Maybe Riley didn't want an apology. Maybe she just wanted him gone.

The thought was devastating but also, he was starting to realize, possibly valid. Just because he was ready to apologize didn't mean she was ready to hear it. Just because he'd done the work to change didn't mean she owed him forgiveness, or even a conversation.

Consent worked both ways. If she didn't consent to seeing him, to talking to him, then forcing the issue would only make things worse. Would only reinforce that he didn't respect her boundaries, didn't care about her comfort, cared more about his own need for absolution than her need for safety.

"Riley… can we—"

"…Don't," she snapped suddenly, the word raw and sharp, cutting through the house like a gunshot.

Her voice shook, and a tremor ran through her arms as she hugged Finley tighter, pressing the plushie into her chest like a shield, like armor, like the only thing standing between her and complete annihilation. "…I can't…"

The panic surged suddenly, a tidal wave she could no longer hold back, no longer contain behind the failing dam of her composure. She stumbled backward toward the wall, her back hitting it with a soft thump, knees buckling, sliding down until she was sitting with her back against the wall, hands clutching Finley with all the strength she had.

Tears stung her eyes, and her chest heaved as she tried desperately to suck in air that didn't seem to want to enter her lungs. The room swam in and out of focus. Her heart pounded so hard she could see her vision pulse with each beat.

This was a panic attack. She recognized it intellectually even as she couldn't stop it, couldn't slow it down, couldn't do anything but ride it out like a surfer caught in a tsunami.

Billie's POV snapped into action. She moved forward quickly but carefully, her hands reaching for Riley but stopping just short, waiting for permission. "Riles… look at me. It's okay. You're safe. I've got you."

Riley whimpered, a sound somewhere between crying and breaking, somewhere between human and animal, pure distilled fear given voice. "He… he scares me," she gasped between heaving breaths. "…I can't—"

"I know," Billie said softly, dropping to her knees beside Riley, making herself small and nonthreatening. "I know. You don't have to face him. Not now. Not ever. You're safe with me."

The words wrapped around Riley like a warm blanket, like armor, like a promise she desperately wanted to believe. She sobbed into Finley, body shaking uncontrollably, every muscle tensed to the point of pain. The tears came in earnest now, hot and fast and completely beyond her control, soaking into Finley's fabric and dampening her own cheeks.

Billie rested a hand lightly on Riley's back, careful not to crowd, just enough to offer grounding, to remind her that she wasn't alone, that she existed in space and time, that someone was there with her in the darkness. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? Not him, not anyone. I'm right here."

Riley clutched Finley tighter, the shark's stitched smile pressing into her cheek hard enough to leave temporary indentations in her skin. The pressure was grounding, real, something physical to focus on when everything else felt like it was dissolving.

Billie hummed softly, a wordless melody that she'd hummed a thousand times before during Riley's worst moments. It was part lullaby, part grounding technique, part reminder that Billie had been here before and would be here again, that Riley wasn't facing this alone.

The sound filled the silence, letting Riley feel the stability without forcing her to speak, without demanding anything from her when she had nothing left to give. Minutes passed. Each one stretched long, heavy, tense, marked by the rhythm of Riley's sobbing breaths slowly, gradually, beginning to even out.

"…I hate him," Riley finally whispered, her voice muffled against the plushie, barely audible even in the quiet room. "…I hate him and I'm scared of him…"

The words felt both true and wrong simultaneously. She didn't just hate him. She missed him too, missed who he used to be, grieved for the brother she'd lost, resented the stranger who'd taken his place. But hate was simpler. Hate was easier to hold onto than the complicated mess of love and fear and loss that actually characterized her feelings.

"I know, Riles," Billie said gently, matching her tone, meeting her where she was without judgment. "And it's okay. You're allowed to feel that. You don't have to forgive him. You don't have to like him. You just… exist. That's enough."

Permission again. Permission to feel complicated things, to not have easy answers, to be a mess of contradictions. Permission to just be.

Riley's trembling eased slightly. Not gone, not even close to gone, but softened fractionally, the earthquake downgrading to just tremors. Billie's presence was a buffer, a shield, a promise: no one could touch her here. Not while Billie stood guard.

After what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, Riley's small, broken breaths slowed from frantic gasps to shaky exhales. The worst of the panic attack had passed, leaving her wrung out and exhausted, every muscle aching from the tension, her head pounding from crying.

Billie shifted carefully, reaching for the blanket at the foot of Riley's bed and draping it over her shoulders, tucking it around her like she was precious cargo that needed protecting. The weight of it was comforting, grounding, a gentle pressure that helped Riley remember where her body ended and the rest of the world began.

She pressed a soft kiss to Riley's forehead, her lips warm against Riley's clammy skin. "We'll get through this. Step by step. And I'll be here. Always."

Riley clutched Finley and pulled the blanket tighter around herself, feeling warmth creep slowly into her chest, chasing away some of the cold fear that had taken up residence there. She whispered one word, barely audible, her voice hoarse from crying: "…okay."

It wasn't agreement, exactly. Wasn't belief or hope or anything so concrete. Just acknowledgment. Just the smallest possible commitment to continuing to exist, to keep breathing, to see what happened next.

Billie smiled, small and genuine and full of more love than Riley knew what to do with. She brushed hair from Riley's face with gentle fingers, tucking it behind her ear. "Good. That's all I need for now."

Outside, the world carried on unaware. Cars drove by on the street. Birds sang in the trees. The sun continued its arc across the sky, marking the passage of time whether anyone paid attention or not. Life went on, indifferent to the small drama unfolding in a bedroom in Los Angeles.

But inside, in that small, tense room with its posters and clothes and half-finished book, Riley felt something she hadn't felt in days: a fragile, fragile sense of safety. Finley between her arms, Billie by her side, and the promise that even if the fear never fully left, she would never have to face it alone.

Downstairs, Finneas sat heavily on the couch, head in his hands. He'd heard Riley's response—the sharp, scared rejection—and it had hit him like a physical blow. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that level of fear, that absolute refusal to even exist in the same space as him.

He pulled out his phone, staring at the screen without really seeing it. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Maybe he should have called first, asked permission, respected her space and her timeline instead of assuming his redemption arc was more important than her healing process.

The therapist had warned him about this. Had said that he couldn't control how people responded to his attempts to make amends, that apologies were for the benefit of the person who'd been hurt, not for him. That sometimes the kindest thing you could do for someone you'd hurt was leave them alone.

He'd thought he understood. But understanding something intellectually and feeling it emotionally were two very different things.

He typed out a text to his mom: I'm here. It's not going well. Riley won't see me.

Three dots appeared immediately, then: Give her time. You can't undo months of damage in one morning.

He knew that. Logically, rationally, he knew that. But some part of him had hoped anyway, had believed that if he'd just changed enough, grown enough, become enough of a better person, everything could snap back to how it used to be.

That was magical thinking. Childish thinking. The kind of thinking that had gotten him into this mess in the first place—believing that his feelings and needs should take priority, that other people should adjust to accommodate him rather than vice versa.

Another text from his mom: The fact that you're trying matters. But so does her right to not be ready. Respect that, even if it hurts.

He typed back: I will. I am. It just… it sucks.

I know, honey. Growth usually does.

Upstairs, Riley had stopped crying but hadn't moved from her position against the wall, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Finley still clutched in her arms. Billie sat beside her now, shoulder to shoulder, offering silent companionship without demands.

"You don't have to talk to him," Billie said quietly after several minutes of silence. "Not today, not tomorrow, not ever if you don't want to. Your healing doesn't require his participation."

Riley turned those words over in her mind, examining them from different angles. Your healing doesn't require his participation. It felt revolutionary and obvious at the same time. She'd spent so much energy worrying about whether she was being unfair, whether she should give him a chance, whether her fear was justified or overblown.

But Billie was right. His growth, his therapy, his redemption arc—those were his responsibility and his journey. Hers was separate. She didn't owe him an audience for his apology just because he was ready to give it.

"What if…" Riley started, then stopped, unsure how to finish the sentence.

"What if what?" Billie prompted gently.

"What if I'm never ready?" Riley whispered. "What if I can't forgive him? What if I don't want him in my life anymore?"

The questions felt dangerous to speak aloud, like admitting something shameful, like confessing to a moral failing. Families were supposed to stay together. Siblings were supposed to work things out. That's what everyone always said, what movies and TV shows depicted, what society expected.

But what if she couldn't? What if the fear never went away? What if the damage was permanent?

"Then that's okay too," Billie said firmly, squeezing Riley's shoulder. "You get to decide who's in your life and who isn't. You get to decide what your boundaries are. And if your boundary is 'I don't want a relationship with him,' that's valid. That's allowed."

Riley felt tears prick her eyes again, but different ones this time—relief mixed with grief. Relief that someone understood, that someone wasn't pressuring her to be bigger and better and more forgiving than she actually was. Grief for the relationship that was lost, for the brother who used to exist, for the family that would never be whole again.

"It's not fair," she whispered, and she wasn't even sure what she meant. None of it was fair. That he'd changed and expected instant forgiveness. That she was the one who had to deal with fear and trauma while he got to be proud of his growth. That trying to heal from what he'd done somehow made her the bad guy in her own mind.

"No," Billie agreed. "It's not. None of this is fair. But you don't have to pretend it is. You don't have to be grateful he's trying. You don't have to perform forgiveness to make everyone else comfortable."

They sat in silence for a while longer, the morning light slowly shifting across the room as time passed. Riley could hear occasional sounds from downstairs—footsteps, the opening and closing of the fridge, the low murmur of a phone conversation—but Finneas didn't try to come upstairs again, didn't call for her again.

Small mercies.

Eventually, Billie shifted. "You hungry? I can make us breakfast. We can eat up here, just the two of us."

Riley considered. Her stomach was a tight knot of anxiety, but she also couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. Yesterday? The day before? Time had gotten fuzzy in the wake of learning Finneas was coming home.

"Maybe just toast?" she said tentatively.

"Toast I can do," Billie said, standing and stretching. "You want to stay here or come with me?"

Riley glanced at the door, imagining the hallway beyond it, the stairs, the kitchen where Finneas might be. "Here," she said quickly. "I'll stay here."

"Okay. I'll be right back. Five minutes, tops."

Billie squeezed Riley's shoulder one more time, then headed for the door. She paused in the doorway, looking back. "Lock it after I leave if you want. Whatever makes you feel safe."

Riley nodded, and as soon as Billie was gone, she scrambled up and locked the door, the click of the mechanism sliding into place bringing a disproportionate amount of relief. One more barrier. One more layer of protection.

She climbed back into bed properly this time, still wrapped in her blanket, still holding Finley. Her room felt like a fortress now, locked and defended. She could breathe a little easier knowing that no one could come in without her permission.

Outside her window, she could see the neighbor's cat prowling across the fence, and beyond that, the clear blue sky of an LA morning. The world was continuing, indifferent to her crisis. People were going to work, living their lives, having normal days.

She wondered what that felt like. To wake up and not immediately scan for threats. To exist in a house without fear. To have a family that felt safe instead of dangerous.

Maybe someday. Maybe after more time, more therapy, more distance from the worst of it. Maybe someday she'd wake up and the fear would be gone, and she'd be able to think about Finneas without her chest tightening.

But not today.

Today, she would stay in her room, with her shark and her sister and her locked door. Today, survival was enough. Today, she didn't have to be brave or forgiving or anything other than exactly what she was: scared, hurt, and trying her best.

And for now, for this moment, that was okay.

Chapter Text

The house smelled faintly of coffee and toasted bread, early sunlight spilling through the windows in soft, lazy streams. Riley stayed in her room longer than usual, the covers pulled over her head, Finley tucked tightly under her arm. She could hear the quiet hum of Billie moving around downstairs, the occasional clatter of a plate or mug. It should have felt normal, peaceful even, but her stomach knotted at every sound from the living room.

She could hear him — Finneas. Somewhere down there, somewhere in the house. He hadn’t left, and he hadn’t spoken. The thought made her grip Finley tighter, pressing the shark to her face like he could shield her from the world. She had no idea how she was supposed to be in the same house as him and not curl into herself forever.

Her hand brushed over the soft fabric, and she whispered, almost to herself, “…just stay… just stay safe…”

Billie’s footsteps padded up the stairs, slower than usual, careful. “Hey, Riles,” she said softly, pausing outside the door. “You okay?”

Riley didn’t answer. She pulled the blanket tighter.

“That’s okay,” Billie continued, crouching slightly so she wasn’t looming over her. “You don’t have to answer. Not yet.”

Riley pressed her face into Finley’s back, listening to Billie’s breathing, trying to anchor herself. The world felt sharp, too loud, too real.

After a long silence, Billie asked, quietly, “Do you want me to sit with you?”

Riley shook her head slightly, though she didn’t look up.

“That’s fine,” Billie said softly. “I’ll be nearby. Just… remember, you’re not alone.”

Even under the covers, Riley could feel the faint warmth Billie radiated, like a quiet shield around her. For now, it was enough.

---

Downstairs, Finneas moved like a ghost. He hadn’t spoken since breakfast, and Maggie and Patrick had gone out to run errands. He knew Riley was upstairs, and part of him wanted to knock gently, apologize again, make things right. But he wasn’t sure if she’d even want to see him.

He wandered into the living room, glancing at the drawings from the day before — sharks in funny little scenes, Stanley and Finley side by side. Riley’s careful attention to detail made him hesitate. He wanted to say something, but the weight of his past actions pressed down, making him uncertain.

Billie noticed immediately when he froze. She rose slightly, a calm but firm presence. “Riles isn’t ready yet,” she said softly, not harsh, but clear. “Give her space.”

Finneas nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah… I know.”

Billie stayed near the stairs, keeping her eyes on him but not threatening. Finneas didn’t approach. Instead, he sat down on the couch, hands clasped, keeping silent.

---

Riley peeked cautiously from her room. She watched him sitting there, shoulders tense, like he was trying not to break. Her stomach twisted with anger and fear. She hated him. Not the small hate, not the fleeting frustration — the deep, all-consuming hate that had been building since the first day she’d stepped into this house.

He hadn’t just scared her. He’d made her feel small, unsafe, trapped. And now here he was, sitting there like he deserved forgiveness just for being quiet. Her chest tightened, and she turned away, clutching Finley harder.

“…I hate him,” she whispered to herself. “…I hate him…”

Billie’s voice came softly from behind her door. “It’s okay to feel that. You don’t have to forgive him.”

Riley froze. “…You… you won’t make me?”

“Never,” Billie said simply. “Not now, not ever, if you’re not ready.”

The reassurance settled around her like a blanket. Not enough to make her forget, not enough to make her trust him. But enough to let her breathe.

---

Hours passed. Riley stayed in her room, only moving to eat when Billie brought her a plate and cup of tea. Finneas didn’t try to enter or speak. His silence was heavy, but it wasn’t threatening. He was trying, in the only way he knew how.

Billie sat near Riley as she ate, humming softly, letting her move at her own pace. Riley’s hands shook as she picked up her fork, the memory of Finneas’ voice still sharp in her mind. Billie didn’t comment; she just let her be, offering presence over words.

Finally, Riley looked at Billie, eyes wary but curious. “…Will he… stay quiet?”

Billie nodded, her hand brushing over Riley’s arm lightly. “He’s trying. He knows you need space. And I’ll make sure he respects it.”

The small reassurance made Riley exhale slowly, a tiny thread of relief weaving into her chest. She clutched Finley tighter and whispered, “…okay…”

---

By evening, Riley had moved to the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, Finley pressed between her arms. Billie sat near her, keeping watch over the room, aware of Finneas lingering quietly on the couch. He hadn’t said a word all day, just watched, waited, and tried not to scare her further.

Riley glanced at him, then quickly looked away. Her chest still tightened at the sight of him, but now there was something else — curiosity, cautious, tentative. She could feel herself starting to notice the little ways he tried to avoid overwhelming her.

Billie noticed the subtle shift. “Riles,” she said softly, leaning slightly closer, “you don’t have to talk to him. You don’t even have to look. But if you ever want to… you get to decide.”

Riley didn’t answer. She just hugged Finley tighter and whispered, “…I… maybe…”

Finneas noticed, his shoulders tensing, a tiny flicker of hope passing over his face. He didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just kept silent, letting Riley take the lead.

Minutes stretched into a quiet rhythm. The soft shuffle of Billie moving in the room, the faint hum of her voice, the occasional creak of the house — all of it settled around Riley like a protective cocoon. She could breathe a little easier, though the fear hadn’t gone.

Finally, she spoke, voice barely audible. “…I don’t trust him.”

Billie nodded gently. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. Trust takes time.”

“…It’s… hard,” Riley whispered, hugging Finley to her chest.

“I know,” Billie said softly. “And you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll be here.”

Riley exhaled shakily, closing her eyes. The tension eased slightly, just enough for her to feel safe. Finneas stayed on the couch, quiet, acknowledging her words silently. He hadn’t earned her trust yet. Maybe he never would — but he could wait. And he could try.

Billie reached over, brushing Riley’s hair back, tugging the blanket closer around her shoulders. “Step by step,” she whispered. “We’ll do it together.”

Riley pressed her cheek against Finley and nodded slowly. “…Okay…”

The house settled around them in the evening light, tense but quiet. Riley still hated Finneas. Still feared him. But for the first time, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she could exist in the same space as him without breaking. And that was enough for now.

Chapter Text

The garage smelled faintly of motor oil and dust, but Riley didn’t care. She sat on the edge of the car seat, legs swinging slightly, her short shag haircut bouncing with every movement. The red peek-a-boo streak glinted in the sunlight streaming through the garage door, a bold slash of color against the dark brown of her hair.

She wore a loose black hoodie, slightly baggy cargo pants, and scuffed sneakers. Her hands were tucked into her hoodie pockets, elbows out, posture relaxed and confident — all boyish cues she had practiced and now wore naturally. She had a small smirk tugging at her lips, playful and teasing, as she leaned slightly toward Billie, waiting for her.

Billie parked the car nearby and opened the passenger door. The smile that spread across her face was soft and warm, eyes lighting up. “Wow,” she said, tilting her head. “You… look amazing, Riles.”

Riley grinned faintly, tugging at her hoodie sleeves. “…Thanks. Just… me,” she said, voice blunt but casual, the edge of boyish confidence threading through it.

Billie crouched slightly to match her height, brushing a hand over the back of Riley’s neck lightly. “…Just you, huh?” she said softly. “And I love it.”

Riley rolled her eyes dramatically, leaning back into the car. “…You don’t get it. This is me. Finally me. Not… not scared, not hiding.”

Billie’s chest warmed with pride. “I do get it,” she said. “…And I’ve seen you grow so much. Look at you.” She gestured at Riley’s hair, the peek-a-boo red streak, the way her posture screamed confidence. “All of it.”

Riley smirked again, swinging one leg over the car seat. “…Well, you had better get used to it,” she teased. “…Because this is permanent. Like… full-time.”

Billie laughed softly, brushing a stray piece of hair from Riley’s forehead. “…I’m never getting used to it,” she said. “…I’m proud of it. Of you.”

Riley shifted, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees. Her movements were sharper now, more deliberate, almost boyish in their casual energy. She kicked lightly at the floor, spun Finley in one hand, and tilted her head toward Billie. “…So, are we going, or are we standing here gaping at my amazing haircut all day?”

Billie grinned. “Let’s go,” she said softly. She reached for Riley’s hand, letting her grip it gently as they stepped toward the car.

Riley let herself be pulled along, though she bounced slightly with energy, a boyish spring in her step. She swung her backpack casually over one shoulder, adjusting her hood as they walked. Billie noticed every subtle cue: the confident stride, the loose, playful gestures, the ease in her speech. It wasn’t just the haircut or the clothes — it was Riley’s energy, her presence.

Billie’s chest tightened with quiet pride and protectiveness. She squeezed Riley’s hand lightly, murmuring, “…You’re so… you, Riles. And it’s beautiful.”

Riley glanced at her briefly, a small grin tugging at her lips. “…Thanks, Billie. Means a lot. But hey… keep up the flattery and I’ll start charging.”

Billie laughed, brushing a hand over Riley’s shoulder as they climbed into the car. “…I’d pay,” she said softly. “…For every single part of you.”

Riley leaned back into the seat, arms crossed loosely, feet kicking lightly against the floorboard. Her movements were effortless, comfortable in her own skin — the boyish energy she’d cultivated over the past year spilling out naturally. She tossed Finley onto the seat beside her, catching him with a playful flick. “…And he’s the only one allowed to get roughhousing like this,” she said, pointing at the plush shark.

Billie’s smile softened further. “…He’s lucky to have you,” she said quietly. “…And so am I.”

Riley’s grin widened, leaning back with a small laugh. “…You mean, you survived a year with me like this. That’s what I hear.”

“Survived?” Billie teased, glancing at her. “Riles… it’s been amazing.”

The car door closed, and Billie started the engine. Riley pressed her face into Finley, then glanced out the window, her boyish energy still evident in the casual, easy way she moved, spoke, and existed. She was confident, playful, assertive — and Billie couldn’t stop smiling, proud of every step Riley had taken in the past year.

For the first time in a long while, the world felt like Riley’s playground. She had space, freedom, and someone she trusted utterly — and she was finally learning that being herself, fully, wasn’t scary at all.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled across the kitchen floor in thick, golden stripes, illuminating Riley’s worn sneakers and baggy cargo pants. She stood by the counter, one hand tucked into a pocket, the other idly spinning Finley in the air like a mischievous pilot. Her short shag haircut, streaked with bold red, bounced with each tilt of her head.

Billie glanced up from the dishes she was washing, smiling softly at the scene. “You’re in a playful mood today,” she observed.

Riley shrugged casually, leaning on the counter. “…Maybe. Or maybe I’m just me now,” she said bluntly, the words carrying her usual boyish edge. She grinned, catching Billie’s eyes. “You cool with that?”

Billie laughed softly, drying her hands on a towel. “I’m beyond cool,” she said. “…And proud.”

Riley smirked, kicking lightly at the floor. “…Good. Because I’m not slowing down anytime soon.”

The confidence was evident, but Billie also noticed the subtle tension behind her movements — the familiar flicker of fear whenever the house shifted or a door creaked. Riley was testing her limits, pushing herself forward while still keeping one eye on the safety net Billie represented.

---

Finneas lingered on the couch across the room, quietly observing. Riley’s boyish energy — the blunt gestures, casual slouch, and playful spins with Finley — made him pause. He had learned to respect her space over the past year, but her boldness now brought a mixture of admiration, frustration, and nervousness.

Riley noticed him glancing at her. Her lips pressed together for a moment, a smirk tugging faintly. “…You looking or just imagining how scary I could be if I wanted to be?” she teased, swinging Finley lightly.

Finneas flinched, caught off guard by the bluntness. “…Just… noticing,” he said softly.

Riley’s grin widened. “…Noted. Cool. Carry on.”

Billie, nearby but not intruding, nodded slightly. Her presence was steady, calm — a reminder that Riley had a buffer between herself and Finneas’ reactions.

---

Breakfast passed in a playful chaos. Riley experimented with speech patterns, gestures, and small challenges. She leaned casually against the table, elbows out, hands slouched in her pockets. Her movements were sharper, quicker — boyish mannerisms she now wielded naturally.

She teased Billie about the cereal, tossing a piece toward her cheek before catching it again. “…Missed!” she laughed. “…Or maybe I’m just getting better at throwing things.”

Billie chuckled, shaking her head. “…Don’t hit anyone with it, okay?”

Riley grinned. “…No promises,” she said, voice teasing but confident. Then her gaze flicked toward Finneas. “…And you, mister… keep your distance.”

Finneas’ lips pressed into a thin line. “…Understood,” he said quietly, leaning back further into the couch, giving her the space she demanded.

Riley smirked to herself, satisfied. Boundaries established. Fear acknowledged but tempered by agency.

---

Later, she roamed the house, testing limits in small ways. She practiced rougher gestures: brushing her hair back roughly with one hand, leaning against walls in boyish slouches, crossing her arms casually, swinging Finley around as she moved. Each action was deliberate — a subtle rebellion against the old, timid Riley, a statement of independence and self-expression.

Billie followed, not interfering, offering quiet affirmation. “That’s it,” she whispered as Riley perched on the couch arm, legs dangling carelessly. “…All of you, in your own way.”

Riley laughed, spinning Finley. “…I know. I’m unstoppable.”

---

The tension with Finneas grew, though muted. He followed her with cautious eyes, learning to gauge her comfort. Riley, now confident but aware of lingering fear, decided to test him.

She approached the living room, dropping Finley onto the floor. “…You staying on the couch or are you gonna try anything scary today?” she asked bluntly, voice dripping with boyish daring.

Finneas froze, caught between wanting to speak and respecting boundaries. “…Couch,” he said after a pause, tone low and careful.

Riley smirked, satisfied. “…Good answer.” She swung a leg over the chair and plopped down, elbows on knees, body relaxed yet bold. Her posture, speech, and energy radiated boyish defiance and confidence, signaling her growth over the year.

Billie leaned against the doorway, watching quietly. Her heart swelled — Riley was asserting herself, fear still present but tempered, reclaiming her space and experimenting with identity.

---

The afternoon unfolded in this rhythm. Riley’s boyish energy infused every movement: rougher gestures, casual sprawls on the couch, playful teasing, abrupt sharp laughs, quick steps across the floor. She moved and spoke in ways that challenged the old patterns of fear, asserting agency while still tethered to safety through Billie’s presence and Finley’s comfort.

At one point, she leaned close to Billie, whispering, “…Think I’m pushing it too far?”

Billie smiled softly. “…Not at all. You’re finding yourself. That’s exactly what you should be doing.”

Riley grinned, swinging her legs. “…Good. Because I’m not stopping.”

---

By evening, Riley sprawled across the couch, arms behind her head, Finley clutched loosely against her chest. Her movements were relaxed yet deliberate, a comfortable mix of boyish rebellion and playful energy. Billie settled beside her, brushing back stray hair from her forehead.

“…You’re doing so well,” Billie said softly. “…I’m proud of you.”

Riley smirked faintly. “…Thanks. But it’s all me. No scary ghosts of the past here.”

Finneas sat across the room, watching quietly, learning to respect Riley’s space while acknowledging the person she had become. Her confidence, boyish energy, and agency were clear. He had no control over it — and Riley liked it that way.

Billie smiled, brushing a hand over Riley’s shoulder. “…And I’ll always be here,” she whispered. “…Right here, watching, supporting.”

Riley leaned slightly against her, small smile tugging at her lips. “…Good. Because I’m not done yet.”

The house settled into quiet warmth. Riley’s fear hadn’t vanished, but her bold, boyish energy, playful mannerisms, and growing independence carved a new space for her. One year later, she had fully claimed pieces of herself — and no one, not even fear or Finneas, could take it from her.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight spilled across Riley’s bedroom, dust motes floating lazily in the streaks. Riley sat cross-legged on her bed, Finley tucked under one arm, staring down at her hands. Her hair — the short shag with red peek-a-boo streaks — bounced slightly as she moved, reflecting the sunlight like a halo of defiance.

She tugged at the sleeves of her oversized hoodie and shifted in her seat, feeling both solid and unsure at the same time. For a long while, she had felt certain — confident in her boyish style, in the way she spoke, the way she walked, the way she carried herself. She had reclaimed her space, learned to assert boundaries, and found joy in the small ways she could just be herself.

But today, a quiet question had nudged its way into her mind, persistent and strange: Do I really have to label myself?

Riley wasn’t someone who cared about pronouns. People could call her he, she, they — it had never mattered. But sitting there in the quiet of her room, the question felt heavier, more insistent. She ran a hand through her hair, tugging slightly at the red streak. Was she… something else? Someone else?

She leaned back against the headboard, hugging Finley tighter, and whispered, “…Does it matter? Do I need… a label?”

Billie’s soft voice called from downstairs. “Riles? Breakfast’s ready!”

Riley blinked, the question still hovering in her chest. “…Coming,” she called back, her voice casual, but the uncertainty lingered. She pressed her cheek into Finley, thinking. Maybe it didn’t matter — maybe it never had. But it was strange to feel like she might want more clarity, even if clarity wasn’t necessary for anyone else.

---

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and toasted bread. Billie hummed as she set a plate of eggs and toast in front of Riley, who perched on the counter, legs dangling casually. Her baggy hoodie swallowed her frame, her movements boyish and relaxed, but her mind was buzzing.

Billie noticed the subtle tension, the way Riley’s fingers twisted slightly in her lap before she grabbed a piece of toast. “…What’s on your mind, Riles?” she asked softly, brushing back a stray piece of hair.

Riley chewed silently, thinking. “…I… I dunno. It’s nothing,” she said finally, shrugging. But she felt the words tremble slightly — even in casual delivery, her uncertainty was visible.

Billie smiled faintly, placing a gentle hand over Riley’s. “…Nothing that’s too big to talk about?” she asked. “I can hear you.”

Riley looked at her, the corners of her lips twitching into a small, uncertain grin. “…I don’t care what people call me,” she said. “…He, she, they — whatever. But… lately, I’ve been thinking…”

Billie waited patiently, nodding. “Go on.”

“…I dunno if I… like… if I need to pick,” Riley muttered. “…I’ve been trying out… boyish stuff. Clothes, hair, the way I act… and it feels good. But then I wonder… maybe pronouns… maybe names… maybe it’s more than just clothes? But maybe it isn’t. And honestly? I don’t care what other people call me. But I care about… me?”

Billie squeezed her hand gently. “…That’s okay, Riles. You don’t need to have all the answers. You’re allowed to try things out, to experiment. Pronouns, labels, identity — it’s all yours. And it can change.”

Riley nodded slowly, a small flicker of relief threading through her chest. “…Yeah… I guess. It’s weird, though. Feeling… both okay and unsure at the same time.”

“That’s growing,” Billie said softly. “…That’s normal. You’re allowed to feel both.”

---

Later, Riley wandered through the living room, Finley tucked under her arm. Her movements were boyish as ever — casual, blunt, confident. Yet inside, the question lingered. She passed Finneas on the couch, his attention on a book, and noticed herself thinking about pronouns again. She smiled faintly. Does it matter to him? Does it matter to anyone else?

Probably not. And that made her feel a little freer. She could exist as boyish, confident, playful Riley, experimenting with identity, without needing anyone else’s validation.

---

By evening, Riley had sprawled across the couch with Billie beside her, Finley propped between them. She twirled the plushie lazily, her boyish energy still present, though a quiet thought lingered in her mind. “…Maybe I don’t need a pronoun,” she murmured softly. “…Maybe I just… am me. And that’s enough.”

Billie smiled, brushing a hand over Riley’s shoulder. “…It is enough,” she said gently. “…All of it. The you that experiments, the you that plays, the you that questions… that’s the real you.”

Riley pressed her cheek into Finley, exhaling slowly. “…Yeah… I think I like that. Just… being me.”

And for the first time in a long while, Riley felt a sense of peace settle over her. She didn’t have all the answers — maybe she never would. But she had agency, she had choice, and she had Billie’s support. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Riley didn’t start the day feeling different.

She woke up curled on her side, hair sticking up in wild angles, Finley smushed under her chin like usual. The morning light cut through the blinds in those prison-bar stripes she always complained about, and she groaned dramatically into her pillow.

Totally normal.
Totally her.

She dragged herself out of bed, hoodie half-zipped, one sock missing, and shuffled into the hallway like a haunted raccoon.

Billie spotted her first.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Billie said through a yawn, hair up in a messy bun that barely counted as a hairstyle.

“Mrrgh,” Riley grumbled back — extremely eloquent.

Everything felt ordinary.

Until it… didn’t.

---

The Moment That Plants the Seed

Riley had just grabbed a glass from the cupboard when Finneas leaned in from the living room and called out:

“Riley, can you hand me that notebook she left on the couch?”

She.

Riley blinked. She didn’t react — not outwardly — but something in her chest hiccupped.
Not wrong.
Just… off?
Like wearing a shirt she’d outgrown without realising it.

She grabbed the notebook without thinking and tossed it lightly at him. “Catch.”

He caught it with a grunt. “Thanks.”

Riley went back to her glass of water. But her mind? It stuck on that one tiny word.

She.

It didn’t sting.
It didn’t upset her.
It just felt like a label that didn’t sit perfectly flat anymore.
Like a sticker peeling slightly at the corner.

She shook it off. She didn’t “care about pronouns.” She’d been saying that for years.

Right?

Right.

---

Billie Notices Before Riley Does (Because… Billie)

Riley was sprawled upside down on the couch later — legs over the back, head hanging toward the floor, Finley balanced on her stomach — when Billie plopped beside her.

“You’re quiet,” Billie said.

“I am upside down,” Riley countered.

“Mm. You do your best thinking upside down, though.”

Riley made a face. “…Do I?”

Billie nudged her foot. “Spit it out.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Liar.”

Riley groaned dramatically and let her arms dangle. “…Finneas called me ‘she’ earlier.”

Billie blinked slowly. “Okay… and?”

“And it felt… weird?” Riley scrunched her nose. “Not, like, bad. Not like ‘never call me that again,’ just… I dunno. Off.”

Billie didn’t say anything. She just hummed.

Riley glared at the ceiling. “Don’t hum at me.”

“You’re figuring something out,” Billie said simply.

“I’m not figuring anything out. I don’t care about pronouns.”

“Sure,” Billie said gently, “but you’re… thinking about them now.”

Riley’s face warmed. “…Shut up.”

Billie grinned. “Make me.”

Heh. Brat.

---

Testing the Water Without Calling It That

Later that afternoon, Riley wandered into the hallway where a mirror hung — one he usually avoided.

He stared at his reflection.

The short shag haircut.
The messy red peek-a-boo streak.
The baggy hoodie.
The cargo trousers.
The way he stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, weight shifted like he owned the floor.

He tilted his head.

“…He looks cool,” he mumbled under his breath.

Then froze.

He.

His stomach flipped weirdly. Not nauseous — just surprised. Like overhearing himself say something he didn’t expect.

He tried again, barely whispering.

“…He looks kinda sick, actually.”

Warm. It felt warm.

He wasn’t sure if that was allowed to feel warm.

He backed away from the mirror like it might tattle on him.

---

Billie Catches Him in 4K

Billie caught him in the hallway five minutes later, face flushed, hair chaotic, acting like he hadn’t just said “he” to his own reflection.

She raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

“I’m great,” Riley said too quickly.

“You look suspicious.”

“No I don’t.”

“You do.”

“No I don’t.”

“Riles. You absolutely do.”

He groaned. “Fine. I… tried something.”

Billie leaned in like a cat about to pounce. “Go on.”

Riley tugged on his hoodie sleeve, embarrassed. “…I used ‘he’ for myself.”

Billie’s expression didn’t explode with excitement or shock. She just softened. Completely softened.

“How did it feel?” she asked quietly.

“…Nice,” Riley admitted. “Like, stupid nice.”

Billie nudged his shoulder with hers. “That’s not stupid.”

Riley looked away. “It’s weird.”

“Weird doesn’t mean wrong.”

“…Yeah,” he whispered.

---

The Slip That Isn’t a Slip

Dinner rolled around again. Riley wasn’t expecting anything to happen. He wasn’t planning to test anything. He definitely wasn’t planning for anyone else to do anything.

Which is why he almost choked when Maggie walked by and asked:

“Billie, can you pass Riley his cup?”

His.

She’d said it totally normally.
No hesitation.
No “oh sorry, I mean—.”
Just… his.

Riley froze, heart racing, cheeks going hot.

Maggie didn’t even seem to notice. She just kept talking about something Patrick said earlier.

Billie glanced at Riley with a tiny, tiny smile.

Riley looked down at the table.

He felt—

He felt like someone had opened a door.

Not pushed him through it.
Not dragged him.
Just opened it.
And let him look.

---

The Quiet Realisation

That night, Riley sat on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves fisted in his hands.

He whispered softly:

“…He.”

He felt his heartbeat settle.

“…Me.”

Then, even quieter:

“…I think I’m okay with that.”

He hugged Finley to his chest and let himself breathe, slow and soft and steady.

He didn’t need to change everything.
He didn’t need to decide anything tonight.
He didn’t need to pick a label or announce anything or draw a line in the sand.

He just… liked it.

He liked he.

He liked the way it felt on his tongue.
He liked the way Billie said it.
He liked the way Maggie didn’t blink when she used it.
He liked the way it felt like it belonged to him more than she ever had.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t trying on a costume.

He was trying on himself.

And it fit.

Chapter Text

Riley didn’t sleep much.

Not like a dramatic, staring-at-the-ceiling-all-night thing… more like every time he drifted off, his brain nudged him awake with the tiniest electric jolt.

He. Him. His.
The words he’d whispered to himself over and over like a secret spell.

He wasn’t used to wanting anything this quietly. Usually, Riley’s wants came loud — a new band tee, a specific snack, Billie’s hoodie to steal, a different haircut. Easy wants. Harmless wants.

This one felt… real.
Real in a way he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

By the time the sun pushed through the blinds, he was already sitting up, hoodie sleeves over his hands, Finley resting against his knee.

He muttered, half to himself, half to Finley,
“Okay… new day. No freaking out.”

He immediately freaked out a little.

---

Billie Knocks Softly (Because She Always Knows When Something’s Up)

Not even two minutes after Riley stood up, there was a gentle knock at the door.
Billie’s knock. Softer than anyone else’s, like she was afraid to scare the dust.

“Riles?” she said. “You awake?”

“…Yeah.”

The door cracked open, and Billie peeked her head in. She looked sleepy and soft around the edges, like she hadn’t fully assembled herself yet.

“Can I come in?”

Riley nodded, and Billie stepped inside, closing the door behind her as if the hallway might eavesdrop.

She wasn’t wearing makeup. Just a hoodie and plaid pajama bottoms. Cozy, gentle Billie. His favorite version.

She didn’t ask “are you okay?”
She didn’t ask “what’s wrong?”
She just sat beside him on the bed.

After a moment, she said quietly:

“So… how does the word feel today?”

Riley flushed instantly.
“Billie—”

“I’m not teasing,” she said softly. “I mean it.”

He fiddled with the edge of his sleeve. His voice came out small.
“…Still nice.”

Billie’s smile deepened, warm as a blanket.
“I’m glad.”

Riley swallowed. “…I don’t want to make everyone change stuff for me.”

“You’re not making anyone do anything,” Billie said. “You’re letting us see you. That’s different.”

Riley stared at his hands. “…I don’t even know who ‘me’ is.”

Billie bumped her shoulder into his. “That’s because you’re still growing into him.”

Riley’s breath caught.

“…Him,” he whispered.

And it didn’t feel scary.
It felt… comforting.

---

Breakfast — The First Public Test

Riley never liked sitting at the table with everyone. Too many eyes. Too much noise. Too many clattering forks and overlapping conversations.

Today felt worse, like his skin was buzzing with a secret no one was supposed to know.

Billie nudged him gently as they walked in. “Breathe,” she whispered.

He tried.

Patrick looked up from the stove. “Morning, sweetheart.”

Riley managed a tiny smile. “Morning.”

Maggie was already at the table. “Did you sleep okay, love?”

“Uh… kinda.”

Finneas glanced over. “You look like you survived a tornado.”

“Thanks,” Riley muttered.

Everything felt normal.
Nobody knew.
Nobody could tell.

And then—

Billie’s voice cut through the quiet, casual as breathing:

“Riley, can you hand me his plate? He forgot it on the counter.”

It was smooth. Intentional. No hesitation.

Riley froze.
The others didn’t.

Patrick didn’t blink. Maggie didn’t react. Finneas just reached for the salt like nothing new had happened.

But Riley’s heart hammered so hard he thought the table might shake.

Billie looked at him with the softest, smallest smile.

He handed her the plate.

---

Maggie Notices — But Not in a Scary Way

After breakfast, while Riley was rinsing dishes, Maggie slipped beside him.

Her voice was quiet — not prying, not sharp, just… warm.

“You okay with that?” she asked.

Riley’s chest tightened. “With what?”

“The pronouns.”

His throat felt thick. “…I don’t know.”

Maggie nodded gently. “That’s alright. Trying things is how we learn what fits.”

Riley stared at the water running over his hands.
“But what if it doesn’t fit? Or what if it fits too much? And then everything changes? And—”

Maggie placed a hand lightly between his shoulder blades.

“Riley, darling. Nothing about you being more yourself is ever going to scare us away.”

He blinked fast, trying to keep tears from slipping out.
“I don’t want to confuse anyone.”

“You’re not confusing us,” Maggie said softly. “You’re discovering you.”

He shut his eyes.
It was overwhelming.
Too kind.
Too safe.
Too much.

But in the best way.

---

The Backyard — Where It Finally Clicks a Little More

Later that afternoon, Riley sat outside in the backyard with Finley in his lap. The air smelled like the neighbor’s barbecue. The grass was itchy on his ankles. The sun warmed the side of his face.

Everything felt still.

Billie slid the patio door open and stepped out, hands in her pockets.

“Hey,” she said, sitting beside him in the grass.

“Hey.”

“You doing okay?”

Riley nodded. “…Yeah. I think so.”

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

Billie smirked. “Scary.”

Riley shoved her lightly with his shoulder. “Shut up.”

They sat in silence for a while.

And then Riley whispered, not looking at her:

“…You can use he for me today.”

Billie didn’t gasp.
Didn’t cheer.
Didn’t make it huge.

She just nodded once, carefully, respectfully.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I will.”

Riley’s chest fluttered, warm and terrified and relieved and new.

He hugged Finley tighter.

“…Thanks,” he whispered.

Billie leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Anytime, Riles,” she murmured.
“Anytime, he needs it.”

Riley’s breath hitched.

He closed his eyes, letting the word settle into him like a stone sinking gently to the bottom of a lake.

Not heavy.
Just true.

Chapter Text

Riley didn’t sleep much that night. His thoughts were a tangle of excitement, fear, and the tiniest flicker of hope he’d been too scared to admit until now. He. Him. His. The words echoed in his head like a private drumbeat, insistent and familiar all at once. He kept whispering them under his breath, and each time, a tiny spark of… rightness flared in his chest.

By the time the morning sun nudged the blinds open with its blinding gold, Riley was already sitting up in bed, hoodie sleeves over his hands, Finley tucked under his arm like a lifeline. He stared at his reflection in the mirror across the room: messy red peek-a-boo streaks, shaggy haircut that refused to be tamed, baggy jeans folded awkwardly at the ankles, his oversized tee with a hole he’d secretly patched himself. It was him. Not perfect. Not polished. Just… Riley.

Billie peeked in quietly, like she didn’t want to disturb the fragile calm.

“Hey,” she whispered, smiling softly. “You awake?”

Riley groaned and covered his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “…Barely.”

Billie stepped inside anyway, hands tucked in her hoodie pockets. “You ready for this?”

Riley peeked at her, eyes wide. “…I don’t think I am.”

“That’s fine,” she said, soft and steady. “Nobody expects you to be.” She leaned against the doorframe and watched him fidget, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “You’re going to be fine, you know.”

“I… I hope so,” Riley muttered, still not meeting her gaze.

Billie crouched slightly to be level with him, just for a second, and nudged his shoulder. “You got this, Riles. Trust me.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. Billie’s faith had a way of settling the storm in his chest. He took a shaky breath, tugged his hoodie all the way down, and whispered under his breath: “He… he… he…”

The repetition made his chest tighten, then loosen. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or relief. Maybe both.

---

The Car Ride

The drive to school was quiet. Riley stared out the window, watching the familiar neighborhood blur by. His stomach was a twisting knot of nerves and anticipation. He is fine. He will be fine. He… he… he…

Billie glanced over, noticing the slight tremor in his hands as they rested on his lap. “Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”

Riley huffed, cheeks heating. “I am.”

“You’re not.” She smiled knowingly. “But you can be.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. Even in panic, her confidence was infectious. She had that way of looking at him like she already knew he could do this, like the world outside wasn’t something to be feared, just a playground of possibilities.

---

First Glimpses of the School

When they arrived, Riley’s chest began hammering. The hallway was a storm of motion — students slamming lockers, laughing, shouting, backpacks bumping against ankles, the scent of pencil erasers and cafeteria food mixing in a way that was overwhelming. Every sensory detail made his stomach twist. Every noise pinged against the fragile sense of calm Billie had helped him build.

He gripped his backpack straps tighter, imagining himself disappearing into the ground. He had rehearsed introductions in his head — I’m Riley. He/him. Over and over like a mantra, but every rehearsal made his heart race more.

Billie leaned over. “You okay?”

Riley swallowed. “…As okay as I’ll ever be.”

She nudged him gently. “Good enough.”

---

The Office

The secretary’s smile was bright and cheerful. “Hi! You must be the new student — Riley?”

Riley’s throat tightened. “…Yeah.”

“And you use… she/her, right?”

Old Riley would’ve just nodded. But new Riley — tentative, unsure, but quietly defiant — took a deep breath and whispered:

“Uh… actually… he’s fine.”

The words were small, almost inaudible. But they felt enormous.

“Oh! Of course,” the secretary said, scribbling notes without missing a beat. “He/him. Got it!”

Relief surged through Riley’s chest so fast it made him dizzy. Billie, sitting quietly beside him, gave a small thumbs-up, like a secret signal only he would notice.

---

Hallways — A Minefield

Jaden, a tall, easy-going student, was assigned to show Riley around. He had messy hair and a skateboard tucked under one arm, and he smelled faintly like sunscreen and street air. “You Riley?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Riley muttered.

“Cool. Let’s get you settled, man.”

Man.
Riley froze. Heart in his throat. He had never had anyone call him man without hesitation. The word felt strange but also… right. Tiny sparks of pride flickered in his chest.

They navigated the hallways, Jaden pointing out classrooms, the library, the bathrooms, the cafeteria. Riley tried to focus, but his attention kept wandering to how people were looking at him — not with hostility, not with curiosity, just… noticing. And that was terrifying in a new way.

Each glance was a test. Could they see him? Could they see him and not the old labels, the old pronouns, the old expectations?

---

First Class

The first class was literature. Riley slipped into a seat near the back, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, backpack between his knees. He felt like a tiny rabbit hiding in the middle of the field.

The teacher called attendance. “Riley…?” she paused, “and you use…?”

He swallowed. “…He’s fine,” he whispered. His voice quivered slightly, but it was his voice. His word.

The teacher nodded, smiling. “He will sit wherever he likes.”

Riley felt a rush of something — not relief exactly, but recognition. Someone had used the word he’d been testing in private, in a real, official setting. And it worked. It didn’t crash the world.

---

Interactions in Class

As the class continued, Riley’s eyes scanned the room. Some kids noticed him. Some didn’t. One girl whispered something to her friend, and he noticed she used “he” reflexively. Another boy misgendered him by accident, and Riley froze, chest tightening.

It’s okay. It’s fine. It’s fine.

He exhaled slowly. Mistakes would happen. That didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to exist. That didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be him.

Every correct pronoun, every small acknowledgment, built him up. Every slip of the old “she” made him flinch, but also… reminded him of how far he’d come.

---

Lunchtime Chaos

Lunch was sensory overload: trays clanging, smells of pizza, fries, and mystery meat. Kids laughed loudly, spilling secrets and stories. Riley’s stomach knotted. Where could he sit without drawing attention?

Jaden waved him over to his table. “Come on, man. Sit with us.”

Man.

Riley froze. Heart thumping, cheeks hot. He slid into the empty chair, careful not to make a sound, trying not to embarrass himself in front of his new peers.

Conversations were messy, overlapping. One kid asked what shows he liked. Another complimented his hair. Jokes were tossed around like frisbees. Riley laughed quietly at one of them — his first real laugh with someone outside the house in months. It felt strange, freeing, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.

Billie’s words echoed in his mind: You’re allowed to be you. And for the first time, he truly believed it, just for a moment.

---

Afternoon Classes

The rest of the day passed in a blur of textbooks, whispered questions, and careful observation. Riley quietly experimented: thinking “he” in his head, testing it aloud in responses, feeling the thrill of recognition when it worked.

He flinched when someone slipped, misgendered him by accident, but he didn’t panic. He corrected softly, or sometimes didn’t. He was learning that he didn’t have to justify himself to the world, only to the part of him that wanted to be heard.

Each small victory, each tiny affirmation of his identity, carved a path of confidence. Not certainty. Not perfection. But something more real than he’d had before.

---

Ride Home and Reflection

The drive home was quiet. Riley stared out the window, chewing his lip. Billie glanced at him, waiting.

“Well?” she asked softly.

“I… liked it,” Riley said. His voice was quiet but steady. “Being… he. People using he for me. It… felt right.”

Billie’s smile was soft, warm, and proud without being loud or performative. “I’m proud of you, Riles. That’s all that matters.”

He pressed his forehead to the glass, letting the sun warm his face, and whispered to Finley, “I think… I’m a he.”

It felt heavy and light all at once. A word that used to just exist in theory now had weight. Now it had home.

And for the first time in a long time, Riley felt like he wasn’t just surviving. He was starting to exist.

Chapter Text

Riley woke up feeling like someone had stuffed his head with wet sand. His eyes were gritty, his throat dry, and every thought felt like it had sharp edges. Yesterday had been… huge. Bigger than he’d realised. It had felt like jumping into freezing water — exhilarating at first, shocking, overwhelming, so much adrenaline he barely remembered breathing.

Today?
Today his body remembered everything he’d pushed through.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands, Finley tucked under one arm like a shield. The morning light sliced across the floor in pale stripes. He squinted at it like it had personally offended him.

There was a knock. A soft, familiar one.

“…Riles?” Billie’s voice floated through the door. Tired. Gentle. “You awake?”

Riley rubbed his face and let out a noise that was somewhere between a groan and an exhausted whimper. “Unfortunately.”

Billie cracked the door open, peeking in like she was checking on a scared animal. “Round two?”

He dropped back onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes. “Do I have to?”

She walked in, plopped down beside him, and nudged his shoulder. “Not if you don’t want to. But I think… you handled yesterday better than you think.”

“That’s the problem,” Riley muttered into his pillow. “They’re gonna expect me to do it again.”

Billie’s laugh was soft, like she didn’t want to spook him. “I mean, yeah. But you don’t have to be perfect today. Just show up.”

He let out a shaky breath. Showing up felt like climbing Everest in flip-flops.

Billie seemed to read his mind. She tapped his shoulder again, lighter this time. “You’re allowed to crash. New stuff like this? It’s exhausting. Doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”

That helped. Not a lot. But a little. Enough that Riley peeled himself off the bed and started getting dressed.

Baggy jeans. His red-streaked shaggy hair sticking up in chaotic tufts. Hood up immediately. Hands tucked away. Shoulders hunched. A very tiny, very tired boy-shaped creature.

Billie slung an arm around him on the way out the door. “We’ll go slow today. Deal?”

He nodded, small and tired. “Deal.”

---

The Hallways Again

If yesterday felt like a storm, today felt like walking into the wreckage.

Kids were everywhere again, shouting, laughing, pushing, slamming lockers. The hallway buzzed like an electric wire. Riley’s stomach clenched so hard he had to stop walking for a second.

Billie noticed instantly.

“You good?” she whispered.

He nodded even though he wasn’t. His hands were shaking inside his sleeves.

“You want me to walk you to the office again?”

He hesitated. “…Yeah.”

So she did. Quietly, without comment, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

---

The First Slip

The office secretary smiled when she saw him. “Morning, Riley! Did she— oh!” Her face froze. “Oh! I mean— he. Sorry! He. My mistake.”

Riley flinched so hard his shoulders hit his ears.

His face went hot, then cold, then hot again. His chest tightened like someone had twisted a rope around his ribs.

Billie put a gentle hand on his back. Not pushing. Just there.

The secretary kept apologising, clearly mortified. But Riley barely heard it. His ears buzzed with white noise. His throat felt like it was closing.

He forced out a shaky: “…It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Not really.

---

Walking Alone

Billie had to leave him at the hallway entrance. They weren’t allowed to escort students to class past the first day. Riley lingered, fingers twisting the strap of his backpack until his knuckles hurt.

Billie bent a little so her eyes met his. “You want a hug?”

He nodded before he could stop himself.

She wrapped him up in one of those warm, steady hugs — the kind that said you’re safe here, even if you don’t feel like it. He melted into it for a moment, breathing her in, grounding himself.

When she let go, she whispered, “Text me if you need me. I don’t care if it’s during class.”

He nodded, chest unclenching a little. “Okay.”

Then he turned and started walking.

Slowly. Carefully. Like the hallway might bite.

---

Whispers

The first class wasn’t too awful. A couple of kids remembered “he.” A couple didn’t. One teacher corrected herself immediately. Another didn’t notice the slip at all.

But by second period, Riley could feel the stares.

A group of girls whispered behind him:

“Isn’t that the new one?”
“I thought she was—”
“No, he— I think? Billie’s family, right?”
“Wait, really?”

The words hit him sharp and cold.

He kept walking, shoulders tight, breath shallow.
He didn’t want to cry. God, he hated crying.

---

Jaden Tries

Jaden caught up to him near the lockers. “Yo, man! You look like you’re dying.”

Riley snorted weakly. “I feel like it.”

“Second day’s always worse,” Jaden said with the confidence of someone who had suffered middle school at least once. “First day’s hype. Second day you’re like… why am I alive?”

Riley actually laughed — a tiny, strangled laugh, but still a laugh.

Jaden grinned. “There he is.”

He.
The word settled warm in Riley’s chest, soothing the raw edges.

“Come on,” Jaden said, tilting his head. “I’ll walk you to class.”

And he did. No questions. No prying. Just walking beside him like it was obvious they were friends now.

It helped. More than Riley expected.

---

The Crash

By lunchtime, Riley’s brain had officially checked out. Every noise felt too loud. Every movement felt too close. The cafeteria was a nightmare — kids shouting, trays clattering, the smell of fries and cheap pizza mixing with perfume and deodorant spray.

He froze in the doorway, gripping his backpack so tight his palms hurt.

Someone bumped into him.

“Oh— sorry! Didn’t see her—”

Riley felt like he’d been stabbed.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

Jaden’s voice cut through the fog. “Dude? Riley? You okay?”

He shook his head. His throat burned. His eyes stung.

“I— I gotta— I can’t—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He just turned and bolted.

---

Billie Comes Running

The moment Billie’s phone buzzed with his shaky text — “help pls” — she dropped everything.

Riley didn’t know where he was running until he stopped. A quiet hallway. A stairwell. A tucked-away corner beside an old vending machine.

He crouched down, hoodie pulled tight around him, hands over his ears, breaths coming in fast, shallow gasps. His vision shimmered at the edges.

Footsteps approached. Calm ones. Not loud. Not fast.

“Riles?” Billie whispered.

He peeked up, eyes red, breathing jagged. “I—I didn’t mean to— I just— they— someone called me—”

“I know,” Billie murmured, sinking down beside him. “Come here.”

He didn’t hesitate. He fell into her arms like a collapsing structure, shaking, pressing his face into her hoodie. She held him tight, one hand on his back, the other on his hair, grounding him with that calm, steady presence he trusted more than anything.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re allowed to get overwhelmed.”

“I hate— I hate that— that I cared,” he choked. “It shouldn’t matter—”

“It does,” Billie said softly. “Because it matters to you. And that’s enough.”

He cried harder. Quiet, messy, exhausted sobs. She didn’t rush him. Didn’t tell him to breathe. Didn’t try to fix it. She just stayed.

When his breathing finally slowed, Billie brushed his hair back gently.

“You want to finish the day? Or do you want to go home?”

He whispered into her shoulder: “…Home.”

“Then home it is.”

And she stood, helping him to his feet like he wasn’t fragile, but worth being careful with.

---

On the Couch

Back home, Riley lay on the couch wrapped in a blanket, Finley clutched tight against his chest. His eyes were swollen, his body limp with exhaustion.

Billie handed him a glass of water. “Sip.”

He did. Slowly. Quietly.

Then she sat beside him, legs tucked up, voice soft. “You’re not a failure, Riles. Today was just… a lot.”

He nodded weakly. “…I liked he. I still do.”

Billie smiled. “Good. That’s real. Even if the world fumbles sometimes.”

He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It felt right. It still feels right.”

“Then we keep going,” Billie said. Simple. Honest. “At your pace.”

He curled into her side, exhausted and safe.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

“Always,” she murmured, kissing the top of his head. “Always, Riles.”

And for the first time all day, his chest stopped hurting.

Chapter Text

Riley had survived his first day of school.
Barely.
Like— emotionally he felt like someone threw him into a washing machine on spin cycle. But he was still standing, and that counted as a win… probably.

The second morning started with him face-down on his pillow, making dying-animal noises while Billie hovered in the doorway like a concerned owl.

“Rye?” she called softly.

He groaned into the pillow. “Don’t talk to me. I’m already deceased.”

“You’ve been awake for three seconds.”

“That’s all it took.”

Billie slid into the room, plopped on the edge of the bed, and flicked the back of his head — gently, lovingly, annoyingly.

“Come on, dude. You survived yesterday. You can survive today.”

He rolled over with the dramatic energy of a Victorian orphan. “Yesterday was a fluke. A cosmic accident. A glitch in the simulation.”

Billie raised a brow. “And what part was the glitch?”

“How nobody called me ‘she’ on purpose.”

She smiled at him — soft, proud, still a tiny bit worried. “You did good. People followed your lead.”

He didn’t say anything. He hugged his pillow instead, staring up at the ceiling like it had the secrets of the universe carved into it.

Billie watched him. Riley felt her watching. He could basically hear the mom-brain gears grinding.

“What?” he muttered.

“You look more like yourself,” she said quietly. “You seem… lighter.”

He blinked. “I got less than six hours of sleep. I feel like a boiled sock.”

“You know what I mean.”

He did.
And he didn’t know what to do with it, so he made a stupid face and slid out of bed like a slug.

---

At School

The hallways were less terrifying on day two. Still chaotic, still loud, still filled with teenagers who walked like they had three brain cells between them — but at least he wasn’t white-knuckling the straps of his backpack.

He nodded at a couple people who’d talked to him yesterday.
He even said “hey” back when someone called out:

“Yo, Riley! Sick hair!”

And okay… he shouldn’t have felt proud about that.
But he did.

He kept brushing his fingers over the red peek-a-boo streaks in his shag cut, like he needed to make sure they were still there. Like they were a lifeline or something.

Halfway to class, someone bumped his shoulder, really hard.
Riley spun around, pulse kicking.

It was Ezra — the kid from science. The one who smiled like he had secrets. The one who’d said “he” for Riley without even hesitating. The one who made Riley feel a weird little spark in his ribs that he absolutely was not prepared to identify yet.

“Sorry, dude,” Ezra said. “Didn’t see you.”

“’s fine,” Riley muttered, coughing because his voice absolutely did the crackly thing.

Ezra grinned. “You heading to chem?”

“Yeah.”

“Walk with me?”

Riley tried to play it cool.
He did not play it cool.
He nodded so hard his hair flopped.

---

Chem Class: aka The Hour of Riley Trying Not to Implode

Riley tried to focus on valence electrons.

He really did.

But Ezra tapped his pencil against his notebook rhythmically, the sleeve of his hoodie sliding up just enough to show a blue friendship bracelet.

And Riley’s brain went:

> Don’t stare don’t stare don’t— oh my god I am staring.

Ezra glanced over.
Riley shot his eyes to the board so fast he nearly sprained something.

“You good?” Ezra whispered.

“Yep,” Riley squeaked.

Ezra’s smile was small and stupidly warm. “Cool.”

---

Lunch

He was halfway through unpacking his food when a girl he didn’t know plopped down across from him.

“You’re Riley, right?”

He nodded.

“I’m Mia. We share history. I like your jacket.”

He looked down at his jacket — a loose, oversized boys’ zip-up he’d stolen from Finneas’s closet just to annoy him.
It wasn’t even stylish. It was pure comfort. Pure “I want to disappear.”

But Mia smiled like she meant it.

“Thanks,” Riley said, voice steadier now.

“You’re using he/him, right?” she asked casually, like she was asking what his favourite colour was.

He froze for a micro-second.

Yesterday he would’ve panicked.
Today… it felt different.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

Mia nodded. “Cool. I’ll make sure people know.”

Just like that.
No questioning.
No weird face.
No “are you sure?”

And Riley felt this tiny knot inside him loosen, like a thread finally uncoiling.

---

After School

Billie was waiting in the car, sunglasses on, sipping iced coffee like a suburban mom on a mission.

Riley got in and buckled up.

She studied him quietly for a moment. “Good day?”

“Yeah,” he said.
Then he paused.
Then, softer: “Actually… yeah. It was good.”

Billie’s smile was half “I knew it” and half “I want to cry but in a proud way.”

She reached over and gently messed up his hair.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “My kid… growing into himself.”

Riley’s heart did an embarrassing little flip.

“Shut up,” he muttered, cheeks warm.

Billie laughed. “Never.”

But then she lowered her glasses, eyes softening.

“I’m really proud of you, Rye.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“…Thanks, Billie.”

And it felt right.
All of it.
The haircut.
The pronouns.
The way the world was reshaping itself around him, slowly but surely.

He didn’t know exactly who he was yet.

But he knew who he wasn’t.

And for today — that was enough.

Chapter Text

Monday mornings were never gentle, but this one felt like it actively chose violence.

Riley’s alarm went off at 6:30 like someone hitting a metal pan right above his skull. He jerked upright, heart racing, half tangled in his blankets, Finley the shark squished under his arm. For a second he just sat there—blinking, breathing, trying to figure out if waking up was a mistake.

The air was cold. The house was quiet. His stomach felt like it was full of nervous bees.

First full Monday using he/him at school.
First full Monday sitting next to Ezra again in chemistry.
First full Monday where he had to exist, in the world, as himself.

A tiny bit thrilling.
Mostly terrifying.
Kind of like drinking a can of Red Bull mixed with anxiety.

He groaned and flopped back down. “Nope,” he muttered into Finley’s plush belly. “I vote sleep.”

A knock landed on his door.

“Rise and shine, gremlin boy,” Billie called through it, her voice way too bright for a Monday.

Riley made a dying pterodactyl noise.

Billie pushed the door open anyway, stepping inside with her hair in a messy bun, hoodie half-on, coffee in hand.

“You alive?” she asked.

“No.”

“You’re talking, so yes.”

“That’s my ghost.”

Billie snorted and threw a hoodie at him. “Put this on. It’s cold. And you’re going to school.”

“I don’t want to gooooooooo—”

“I know,” Billie said, softening. “But you got this. For real.”

Riley sat up, rubbing his face. Billie hesitated, then sat beside him and nudged his knee.

“You’re doing really well,” she said. “Like… really well. I’m proud of you.”

He looked down, cheeks warm. “Thanks.”

“And also you smell bad so shower, please.”

“YOU’RE RUINING THE MOMENT—”

Billie cackled and left.

For the first time that morning, Riley smiled.

---

Bus Stop Nerves

Outside, the air was crisp enough to bite. Riley shoved his hands in his sleeves and kicked at a rock, trying to look normal and not like someone experiencing a full internal crisis.

The bus rumbled down the street.

His heart jumped.

He climbed on.

And, yup. There he was.

Ezra.
Sitting halfway back, hoodie up, messy hair like he rolled out of bed on purpose and somehow made it look attractive. When he saw Riley, his whole face brightened.

“Oh hey, dude!” Ezra waved him over like they were old friends instead of two teenagers mutually pretending not to be obsessed with each other.

Riley sat beside him.

“You look awake,” Ezra said.

“I’m dead inside but thank you.”

Ezra nodded solemnly. “Mood.”

Their knees brushed. Riley short-circuited for two seconds.

“So,” Ezra said, stretching his arms over his head, “you ready for chem?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“Cool.”

Ezra grinned at him, and Riley felt his stomach do a weird flippy thing that should definitely not be allowed before 8 AM.

---

Chemistry Class of DOOM

They slipped into the classroom together. Mr. Naylor already had the projector on, blindingly bright like he wanted everyone to suffer.

“Morning,” Ezra said as they sat at their shared table.

Riley tried to respond but he was too busy being hyper-aware that Ezra was sitting really close today. Like thigh-against-thigh close. Like “I can feel your warmth through your jeans” close. Like “I can’t remember my own name” close.

Mr. Naylor slapped a packet on their desk.

LAB PARTNERS FOR THE REST OF THE TERM

Ezra immediately turned to Riley with a smirk. “Guess you’re stuck with me, bro.”

Riley’s heart did a full Olympic dive.

“Cool,” Riley squeaked.

Ezra laughed. “Dude—your voice.”

“I’m going through a second puberty leave me alone,” Riley hissed.

Ezra put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. “Okay okay I’m done.”

He was not done. He kept grinning at Riley like an idiot.

---

The Lab Begins (and Riley Dies a Little Inside)

They started measuring out chemicals. Riley’s hands shook.
Ezra noticed immediately.

“You good?” Ezra asked softly.

Riley nodded too fast. “Yep. All good. Perfectly stable. Like a molecule. Like a very stable molecule.”

Ezra snorted. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re sweating.”

“Shut up.”

Ezra reached out and steadied Riley’s hand on the beaker, fingers brushing his knuckles.

Riley’s brain: no thoughts head empty gay panic
His body: heart go brrrrr
His soul: screaming into the void

“Better?” Ezra asked.

Riley nodded, breath stuck in his throat. “Yeah… thanks.”

Ezra didn’t let go for a moment.
Not in a weird way.
Just… like he wanted Riley to know he wasn’t laughing at him. Like he was there.

The world felt a little less scary.

---

Pronoun Conversation (aka Riley’s Heart Falls Out)

As they stirred their polymer mix, Ezra leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Hey, can I ask something kinda personal?”

Riley tensed. “Uh… sure?”

Ezra tapped his pencil. “You’re using he/him now, right?”

Riley swallowed. “Yeah.”

Ezra nodded like he’d already guessed. “It suits you.”

Riley blinked. “It… what?”

Ezra shrugged, eyes warm. “You just… seem more like yourself. I dunno. It fits.”

Riley felt something behind his ribs go soft and warm and stupid.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Anytime, dude.”

---

Hallway Moments

They walked to lunch together, side by side, bumping shoulders every few steps. The hallway noise didn’t dig into Riley’s skull as badly today.

Maybe because Ezra kept glancing at him like he wanted to make sure Riley wasn’t overwhelmed.

Maybe because Riley didn’t feel alone.

Ezra nudged him with his elbow.
“You coming to chem on Wednesday or are you gonna skip and leave me abandoned with Naylor’s evil worksheets?”

Riley smirked. “I would never do that to you.”

“Aww. Bro love.”

“Shut up.”

Ezra beamed. Riley’s heart did an entire tap dance routine.

---

After School: Billie Instantly Figures It Out™

Billie leaned on the car, coffee in hand, sunglasses on like she was about to perform a music video. Riley plopped into the passenger seat and buckled in.

“So,” Billie said, raising an eyebrow. “How was school?”

Riley cleared his throat. “Good.”

“You’re smiling.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re literally smiling.”

Riley hid his face in his hoodie.

“…It’s nothing,” he mumbled.

Billie gasped dramatically. “IS IT A BOY???”

“BILLIE—”

Billie’s eyes lit up like she’d discovered buried treasure. “OH MY GOD IT IS A BOY.”

“STOP.”

Billie kicked her feet excitedly. “What’s his name???”

“I’m not telling you!”

“Is it Ezra?!”

“…I hate you.”

Billie squealed. Actually squealed. “IT IS EZRA—”

Riley curled into a ball. “I hate Mondays.”

Billie grinned. “No you don’t. You had a good one.”

Riley… reluctantly… kinda did.

---

That Night — Riley’s Thoughts Spiral

Back home, Riley shut his bedroom door and slid down it, heart still fluttering from the day. His binder was off, hoodie on, hair messy, Finley tucked under his arm.

He thought about:

Ezra’s smile.
Ezra’s laugh.
Ezra calling him “dude.”
Ezra saying he/him “fit.”
Ezra steadying his shaking hands.
Ezra leaning close, smelling like citrus and laundry detergent.

He didn’t know what any of it meant.
Or what he was supposed to do with it.
He just knew that today felt… good.

Like he’d stepped into the right version of himself.

Like maybe — maybe — things weren’t always going to hurt.

Riley curled up in bed, hugging Finley, cheeks warm in the dark.

For the first time in a long time…
he let himself hope.