“Almost a year.”
“That’s not enough,” she whispers.
“No.”
“What was the worst one?” she asks carefully.
I don’t answer right away.
She doesn’t rush me.
“There was a house that was real quiet,” I say eventually. “Too quiet. No yelling. No noise. Just rules. Everything had to be exact. Shoes lined up. Towels folded a certain way. If they weren’t…”
I stop.
Her hand finds my forearm this time.
“What happened?” she asks quietly.
“Consequences,” I say flatly. “Nothing that left marks you could prove.”
Her fingers tighten.
“I learned to be invisible there,” I add. “Learned how to take up less space.”
She steps closer.
“I’m really glad you don’t do that anymore,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Shrink.”
I set the sanding block down.
“How’d you end up with the club?” she asks after a second.
“That was later,” I say. “I was seventeen. Aged out. No plan.”
Her brows lift. “They just let you go?”
“System gives you a bag and a brochure,” I say.
She stares at me. “That’s barbaric.”
“Efficient.”
“That’s not efficient, that’s abandonment.”
I shrug.
“I was working odd jobs,” I continue. “Fixing bikes out of a shed behind a gas station. Ryder came through one afternoon.”
Her expression shifts at his name.
“With a busted clutch and a look like he wanted to fight someone,” I add.
She huffs a soft laugh.
