Summer vacation. The hottest summer since '69, the news said.

Kennet was on his bed, wearing his worn basketball shirt, book open and momentarily forgotten on his chest. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt earned. Not empty. Not tense. Just calm. His room was scorching, even though the window was open.

The smell of toast still lingered in the air, mingling with laundry detergent and lemon floor cleaner, scents he'd come to associate with safety. Stability. A small miracle.

He could still remember the sound of breaking glass. The slam of a front door. Screaming matches that bled into the walls. His mother's voice shrill with rage or softened by pills, and nothing in between. His father, if you could call him that, with his cracked knuckles and cold eyes. Every corner of that past was edged in fear.

But here—here it was different.

He liked how the light moved in this house. How it didn't feel the need to hide. The way the stairs creaked softly under his feet instead of groaning in protest. He liked the Sunday pancakes and the handwritten grocery lists stuck to the fridge. He liked that his room smelled like clean sheets and old books and not mold and cold sweat.

Sometimes, it scared him how much he liked it. How used to it he'd gotten.

There was still a part of him that flinched when the phone rang or when a car pulled into the driveway, old habits of a boy who had learned not to trust good things. But most days, he let his shoulders drop. Most days, he remembered he didn't have to brace for impact anymore.

This house had given him space to breathe. Space to grow into someone new. Someone steady. And for the first time in his life, he believed he might actually get to stay.

But then... she came back.

It started with the sound of wheels on gravel. A car door slamming, loud and careless. Kennet, still upstairs, lying on his bed with a book open on his chest, heard the sudden noise cracking through the quiet like a warning shot. Something in him sat up before he did.

The front door opened without a knock. Then her voice. He hadn't heard it in a long time, but it hit like déjà vu. He stayed still.

Downstairs, the house changed. The air shifted, filled with noise and too many bags being dropped at once. He could hear you hugging his foster mom, and then something glass clinked against the kitchen counter. Keys? Wine bottles? Who knew. Who cared.

He stared at the ceiling. It had only taken thirty seconds for the silence to vanish.

Kennet had always felt invisible around you. Not in a sad, forgotten way, more like survival instinct. It felt like she filled every space she entered.

The peace was gone. He could feel it, like something delicate that had cracked underfoot.

-

You were in his bathroom again.

Not the guest one downstairs. Not the master en suite. His. Well, not technically his. But the one only he used, when she wasn't there.

Makeup exploded across the counter, foundation smudged on the faucet, one of her makeup brushes spilling dust onto the counter. The room smelled like hairspray and perfume and heat. Like her.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched in the sleeves of his hoodie, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.

She didn't even look up. Just kept brushing her hair like it was hers to do.

He didn't say anything. Didn't trust himself to.

She turned then. Her expression asking. He didn't meet her eyes. He never liked how much she seemed to belong in his space.

Like the foster kid who'd lucked into someone else's family and never quite earned the seat at the table. Like he was just a guest in a life she'd abandoned and now decided she wanted it back.

He crossed the hallway before he could say something he'd regret—before you could tilt her head and flash that little smile that always made him feel twelve again. Powerless. Invisible.

Back in his room, he closed the door. Hard. His pulse was pounding, adrenaline screaming for release. But he didn't yell. Didn't hit anything. He just stood there, breathing through his teeth, telling himself it wasn't a big deal. Just a bathroom. Just a moment.

But that was the problem with her. Nothing ever stayed just anything.