"You know about trees?"
"I don't know. Apparently." He moves to the next tree, examining it. "This one's healthy. Good fruit production, probably."
"How do you know this?"
He shakes his head slowly. "I have no idea. But I'm looking at these trees and I just... know. It's like my hands remember, even if my head doesn't."
We continue walking, past the olive grove toward the fence line. The post I propped up last week is still leaning, the temporary stake barely holding it.
Lupo crouches beside it, testing the post, examining the base. "This is rotted through at the bottom. The whole post needs to be replaced." He looks up at me. "Do you have a post hole digger? And a new post?"
"I think my father had one. In the barn somewhere."
He stands, brushing dirt from his hands. "I can do this. It's not complicated. Just labor."
"You're sure? It's heavy work."
"I'm sure." He seems certain, confident in a way that makes me believe him.
We walk the fence line, and he points out three more posts that need attention. Then we circle back toward the house, and he notices the shutters, the loose boards on the porch, the gutter that's pulling away from the roof.
"There's a lot," I say, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. My father kept things running, and since he died, I've been barely keeping up.
"It's manageable," Lupo says. "One thing at a time. The fence first — that's important for keeping animals in or out. Then the shutters. The gutter can wait until we have better weather."
We, he said we instead of you.
I glance at him, but he's looking at the house, his expression thoughtful. Planning. Like he's already mentally organizing the work, prioritizing, solving problems.
"You've done this before," I say. "Construction. Repair work."
"I think so." He flexes his hands, looking at them like they belong to someone else. "My hands know what to do. I just don't remember learning it."
We're standing close now, at the edge of the porch. Close enough that I can smell the soap he used yesterday, see the small scar through his eyebrow, notice the exact shade of his eyes — dark brown, almost black.
He's looking at me too, and there's something in his gaze that makes my breath catch.
"Isabella—"
"Mama!"
We both turn. Elena is hanging out the front door, still in her pajamas, her hair a wild mess.
"Elena, I told you to stay inside."
"I got bored!" She spots Lupo and her face lights up. "Lupo! Are you all better?"
He smiles — the first real smile I've seen from him — and it transforms his face. Makes him look younger. Less dangerous. "I’m getting there."
"Are you going to stay forever?"
"Elena," I say quickly. "That's not—"
"I don't know," Lupo says gently. "But I'm going to help your mama fix things for a while. Is that okay with you?"
She nods enthusiastically. "Yes! Can I help?"
"We'll see." I take her hand. "Come on. You need to get dressed."
