He genuinely listened when she spoke. Answered every ridiculous question seriously. Slowed his naturally intimidating stride for her tiny legs without even thinking about it. The realization unsettled me deeply.
As we walked past the koi ponds, Sienna grew quieter. I noticed the shift. So did Leo. He glanced down at her small face. “What happened to all the talking?”
Her little shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Nothing.”
Instead of pushing, he slowed his pace slightly until the three of us drifted farther behind the zoo staff trailing us nervously from a distance.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “when I was little, I didn’t talk much either.”
That caught Sienna’s attention. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?” she asked.
Leo was quiet for a second. “Because nobody asked me questions nicely.”
The answer hit me right in the chest. Sienna looked thoughtful about that. Then she quietly asked, “Were you lonely?”
I looked sharply at Leo. Something unreadable flickered across his face before disappearing again as he said, “Yes.”
The honesty in that single word stunned me. Sienna’s little hand slowly slipped into his. Just like that. Like she instinctively knew he’d once been lonely enough to understand her. I saw the exact moment Leo realized it too. His large tattooed hand looked almost absurd wrapped carefully around her tiny fingers. And somehow, impossibly, he held on gently.
“Mama used to say lonely people need extra love,” Sienna whispered after a long silence.
Everything inside me stilled. Beside me, Leo’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. Sienna noticed. Then fear flashed across her face. Real fear. Like she’d just done something forbidden. Her fingers started slipping from Leo’s hand.
“Sorry,” she whispered quickly. “I wasn’t supposed to say that.”
My heart cracked. Even now. Even after death. Papa’s threats still haunted us all. Leo crouched slowly in front of her until they were eye level.
“No one is angry at you,” he said quietly. Sienna looked uncertain.
“We’re not allowed to talk about Mama,” she whispered. I felt sick hearing it aloud.
Leo’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice stayed calm. Gentle. “Who told you that?”
Sienna’s eyes darted nervously toward me first. Then she whispered, “Papa.”
Something cold entered Leo’s expression for half a second before vanishing again.
“What happens if you talk about her?” he asked softly.
Sienna hesitated. Then very quietly: “Papa gets mean.”
Rage flashed through me so fast I almost couldn’t breathe. But Leo stayed perfectly still. Perfectly patient.
“What was your mama’s name?” he asked. Sienna froze like the question itself scared her.
I could practically see the conflict inside her tiny body. Fear battling longing. And God, I understood it. Because we’d all spent years forcing ourselves not to say her name aloud. Like speaking about her might somehow summon violence. Leo waited.
Didn’t pressure. Didn’t command. Just waited.
Finally, barely above a whisper, Sienna said, “Elena.”
The name hit me so hard my eyes burned. Elena. I hadn’t heard it spoken aloud in a long damn time. Sienna looked terrified after saying it, like she expected the sky to split open. Instead, Leo simply nodded once.
“That’s a beautiful name.”
