Chapter 5 #3
I look at Luca. His face has changed, the earlier joy still there beneath the tension, but his eyes are fixed on the documents.
Ember House isn't an idea to him. It's not outreach, not a program, not a line item.
It's rooms and blankets and names. It's Omegas who flinch when doors open too fast. It's second chances built one careful morning at a time.
"What would you change?" Luca asks.
Wilson pulls a marked-up draft from the folder. "I wrote proposed revisions. Lorenzo looked at the compliance phrasing last night. Nicholas sent it through one of his attorneys this morning for structure, but the resident-protection language is mine."
Luca takes the page. His mouth moves slightly as he reads, and I watch some of the tension leave his shoulders. "You did all this already?"
Wilson's answer is simple. "Yes."
Luca looks up at him. There's gratitude there, but also something deeper. Trust, old and renewed. "Thank you."
Wilson accepts it with a nod, but his eyes flick toward the kids before returning to Luca. "I know what places like Ember House mean when they're allowed to stay safe. I also know what happens when people with power start thinking safety's something they can display."
No one answers immediately. The warning lands, but it doesn't crash through the room. It settles instead, heavy and useful, something handed over before it becomes harder to carry.
Wilson stays for another ten minutes. Long enough for Luca to pour him coffee, for Samuel to show him the dinosaur socks, for Rosalie to inform him that crowns are official meeting clothes, and for James to explain the zipper mechanism with Wilson listening beside him.
Wilson listens to James with the same attention he gave the documents, which makes James stand a little straighter.
When Wilson finally gathers the folder, Luca walks him back to the door.
"Tell Oliver I said hi," Luca says.
"I will."
"And send a picture of Bartholomew if Oliver says it's okay."
Wilson's mouth softens again. "He'll send ten."
"I want all ten."
"He'll be happy to send them."
Luca hugs him one more time on the porch. This one's shorter, but no less real. Wilson's hand presses briefly between Luca's shoulder blades before he steps back.
"You look happy," Luca says quietly.
Wilson's gaze drops, then lifts. "I am."
Luca smiles. "Good."
Wilson leaves with a final nod to Luther and me, the folder under his arm, his coat collar turned up against the cold. The door closes behind him, and for a moment the house is quieter than it was before he arrived, not empty, just altered. The warmth remains. So does the warning.
I stand by the counter and look down at my coffee, which I've now forgotten twice. It's cold. I pick it up anyway because the motion gives my hands something to do.
Luca appears beside me before I can take a sip. He takes the mug gently from my hand and sets it in the sink.
"Gray," he says softly.
"I'm fine."
He doesn't argue. He reaches for the carafe and pours a fresh cup, steam rising between us in a slow curl. His movements are quiet and practiced, his body close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. When he hands me the mug, his fingers linger against mine.
"Drink this one while it's hot."
I wrap both hands around the ceramic. The heat seeps into my palms, and I realize how cold my fingers are. "I was going to."
Luca's eyes stay on mine. He doesn't accuse me of anything. He doesn't point out the untouched mug in the sink or the way I keep blinking too slowly. He just reaches up and brushes his thumb under my eye with the same gentleness he used earlier in the hall.
"Sit for five minutes," he whispers. "I've got the kids. Luther has Blake. Maceo's checking the car."
"I need to review Wilson's notes before the meeting."
"You can review them sitting down."
The answer should be easy. The chair's three feet away.
The coffee's hot. The kids are dressed. Blake's no longer typing.
Luther's watching him with that patient, dangerous focus that means the phone won't survive much longer in Blake's hand.
Maceo's got Rosalie's bag over one shoulder and Samuel's coat in his hand.
The morning's moving whether I keep pushing it or not.
"I'm fine," I say again, because it's the shape my mouth knows how to make.
Luca's expression softens, but he lets me have the lie for now. He squeezes my wrist once and turns toward the children, calling for shoes in a voice bright enough to gather them without startling anyone.
I lift the coffee and drink. It's hot enough to sting my tongue, bitter and grounding. I keep the mug close as I turn toward the table, already reaching for Wilson's marked-up pages.
Across the kitchen, Luther's gaze finds me.
His eyes move over my face, the tightness around my smile, the way my hand grips the mug a little too hard, the pause before I bend to help James with his shoes.
He sees the exhaustion under the movement, the strain beneath the easy voice I use for the children.
I smile at him anyway.
Luther doesn't smile back.
And that, more than the cold coffee, tells me I haven't hidden nearly as much as I thought.