She smiles. It’s small. Tentative. But it’s real.
The efficient woman materializes in the doorway. “I’m Niamh. House manager. Nice work.”
“Just making cocoa,” I deflect.
“You madebravecocoa,” Ben corrects. “It’s different.”
Niamh’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
She glances at Marco, still in the other doorway. Something passes between them. An assessment. She nods once. He returns it.
“Welcome to the team, Jess,” Niamh says, and this time it feels official. Like I just passed some kind of test I didn’t know I was taking.
Day one.
Hour one.
And I somehow didn’t completely screw it up.
I watch Ben finish her cocoa. Watch her hold Frederick like he’s the most important thing in the world. Watch her breathe three times without anyone telling her to.
Ben just needed someone to show her that scared and safe can exist in the same breath.
Somehow, that’s far more rewarding than any algorithm ever was.
This might actually work.
When I finally glance back at the doorway, Marco’s gone. But I can feel the shift. He was here. He saw it work.
One step at a time.
9
Marco
I’m sitting at the kitchen island pretending to read emails while in actuality I’m listening to Jess read Ben a bedtime story upstairs.
The monitor is on low. Just audio. No video in bedrooms. That’s in the contract and also basic human decency.
Still, I can hear her voice. Soft. Patient. She’s doing character voices for some Italian folktale about a girl who befriends a fox. Ben giggles at something. The sound punches through my chest like a fist.
When was the last time Ben laughed during a bedtime story?
Months. At least.
Not even Matilda could do this. Maybe she wasn’t as good at her job as I thought.
Rosa left dinner in the warming drawer before heading home. Niamh is in her office off the mudroom doing whatever house managers do after hours. Probably scheduling my life down to the minute. She should really head home.
The house is quiet except for that monitor andmy own thoughts, which are loud as hell and twice as useless.
Jess has been here one day. One day and she’s already dismantled Ben’s panic better than two years of therapy, eight months of Matilda, and my rigid-ass routines ever managed.
Brave Rules.
Frederick the goddamn snail.
Hand squeezes and breathing like it’s hot cocoa.
