The Gift

Matteo clutches the notebook, his tiny fingers gripping it tight. 

Ella doesn't push him. She just sits there, patient and not bothered by the silence.

I clear my throat, shoving my hands into my pockets. "He's not gonna start talking just because you gave him a damn notebook."

She looks up at me with a somewhat strange expression. "I know that."

"Then what's the point?"

Ella sighs and rises to her feet. "Because trust isn't built overnight. It's not about getting him to talk but showing him that he can if he ever wants to."

I grind my teeth. "And if he never does?"

"Then that's his choice," she says simply. "I'm just giving him options."

She says it like it's the easiest thing in the world, like she isn't walking straight into a fight she doesn't even know she's in.

I want to tell her that this is pointless. But I don't. However Matteo is still holding the damn notebook.

And he hasn't let go.

Leo watches me like I'm a problem he hasn't decided how to handle yet.

I let him.

I've dealt with men like him before—men who think control is the only way to keep things from falling apart.

But control doesn't work on everything. Especially not on a child who's been through more than he should have.

Matteo doesn't need someone fixing him. He needs space. He needs patience.

He needs to know that he's not just some fragile thing waiting to be put back together.

I glance at him, still clutching the notebook to his chest. His eyes met mine, just for a second, before darting away.

It's enough.

I turn back to Leo. "I'll be back tomorrow."

He crosses his arms. "Are you assuming I'm going to let you?"

I arch a brow. "Are you assuming I'll stop showing up just because you growl a little?"

His jaw tenses, and for a second, I think he might smile. But then it's gone, and he just shakes his head.

"Do whatever you want," he mutters.

I already planned on it.

Leo doesn't walk me to the door, not that I expect him to.

The man has been radiating go away energy since the second I stepped into this house. But that's fine. He doesn't have to like me.

Matteo is the one who matters.

As I step outside, the evening air cools my skin. The estate is eerily quiet. It reminds me too much of places I've left behind.

I take a steady breath, forcing the past away.

I'll be back tomorrow, the day after, and the day after.

Leo can scowl all he wants. Matteo needs consistency, and I plan to give it to him.

I watched her leave from the window; I don't know why I do it.

Something about Ella Richson grabs my attention.

It's the way she doesn't back down, the way she doesn't push Matteo.

For the first time in months, my kid held onto something instead of shrinking away. However, I still don't like her. 

The next morning, I arrive five minutes early.

Leo doesn't look pleased about it.

He watches me with his usual expression, arms crossed over his chest, as I step inside. "You're early."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "Would you prefer I was late again?"

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he gestures toward the living room, where Matteo is sitting on the couch, staring at the piano.

I exhale softly.

"Morning, Matteo." My voice is gentle but not forced. I've learned that kids—especially kids who've been through something—can sense when you're trying too hard.

Matteo doesn't look at me.

I set my bag down and kneel beside him. "I brought something today."

That gets his attention. His dark eyes pointed towards my bag, curious but wary.

I unzip it and pull out a small notebook and a set of colored pencils. "You don't have to talk to me, but maybe you'd like to draw?"

Matteo hesitates.

I set the notebook on the table between us, flipping to a blank page. Then, without another word, I pick up a blue pencil and start sketching.

Sketched a wolf with soft lines and gentle edges.

Matteo watches.

For a long moment, he just stares. Then, slowly, he reaches for a brown pencil and starts coloring in the wolf's eyes.

I don't say anything.

I just let him.

I should stop this.

I should tell her not to bring personal things, not to engage beyond what's necessary.

But I don't.

I stand in the doorway, watching as Matteo—my Matteo—picks up another colored pencil and starts filling in the wolf's fur.

He's focused. Present.

It's the most I've seen him react to anything in months.

Ella doesn't push him. She just draws, letting him join in at his own pace.

And I hate that I can't find a reason to be mad about it.

Matteo's fingers grip the brown pencil tightly, his strokes slow and careful. He colors in the wolf's fur.

I keep drawing beside him, adding tiny details—a few trees in the background, a moon overhead. He watches every motion, absorbing it all.

"Do you like wolves?" I ask, my voice quiet, like I'm trying not to startle him.

Matteo's grip on the stuffed wolf tightens. For a moment, I don't think he'll answer. Then, so softly, he nods.

I glance up and realize Leo is still standing in the doorway, watching. 

I look back at Matteo and pick up another pencil. "Want to add a name for him?" I ask, tapping the wolf drawing.

Matteo stares at it. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he picks up a black pencil and in small, careful letters, he writes Luca.

I smile. "That's a strong name."

She's good with him.

Too good.

I should be grateful that Matteo is responding, that he's doing something other than sitting in silence. But a part of me—it doesn't trust this.

Still, I say nothing as I watch them draw together, as Matteo writes a name for the wolf and Ella accepts it like it's the most important thing in the world.

For him, maybe it is.

I swallow down the unease in my chest.