MATTEO
Iopen the doors and let Rose walk into leather and wood and the quiet weight of things that have lasted longer than anyone alive. The library is the part of the house that leaves people gasping.
As expected, she stops short.
Deep down, I understand people walk in here, expecting to see stainless steel, glass, screens, or anything that feels like the machinery of power.
We take another step further.
Before us, the room stretches farther than she probably imagined, shelves climbing to the ceiling, ladders on rails, leatherbound spines in deep browns and reds and blacks. First editions sit beside volumes so old their titles have faded to ghosts. The air smells like paper, polish, and time.
She inhales like she’s stepped into water.
“Oh,” she breathes.
I watch her forget herself.
She moves slowly, reverently, fingers hovering just short of touching, eyes darting from shelf to shelf like she doesn’t knowwhere to look first. It’s not performative awe. It’s instinct. Recognition. The kind you don’t fake.
There’s something about her like this that tightens in my chest. The soft lines of her face, the dark fall of her hair against her shoulders, the way her eyes catch light when she’s focused on something she loves. She’s beautiful in a way that isn’t loud or demanding, all quiet precision and restraint, like she’s learned to take up as little space as possible and somehow made that its own kind of gravity.
“You can read anything you want,” I tell her. “Nothing’s off-limits.”
Her head snaps toward me. “Really?”
“Yes.”
She turns back immediately, already scanning, and that’s when I see it—the moment she finds the botany section. Her entire posture shifts. Shoulders loosen. Steps slow. She pulls a book free and flips it open like she’s greeting an old friend.
“You have good editions,” she says, distracted. A look that soon becomes impressed. “These aren’t decorative. Someone actually used these.”
“I did,” I say.
She looks at me then, surprised. “You?”
“Once,” I answer. That’s all I give her.
She trails her fingers along a spine, thoughtful. “I would’ve loved to study this. Botany, I mean. Properly.”
I lean against the table behind me. “Why didn’t you?”
She hesitates. Not long. Just enough.
“Life happened,” Her voice is light but mixed with a note of finality.
I don’t bother asking another question.
She pulls another book down, already lost again, eyes bright in a way they haven’t been since I met her. I tell myself I brought her here because it would make her feel safe.
I don’t tell myself the rest.
That watching her like this feels dangerously close to indulgence.
“You can study as much as you want,” I state. “Stay as long as you need. While you’re here, I’ll put my resources into finding whoever’s been watching you and making sure it stops.”
She stills, book half open in her hands. “Why?”
I don’t answer that. Some questions don’t deserve lies, and they don’t get truths either. “I have my reasons."
