He spun around. “Who are you?”
“I’m Emma. I came with my mom.”
Anger flared. “Your mother brought a child into my house?”
“The school’s closed,” she said quickly. “I promised to be quiet.”
He nearly ordered her out. Instead, he heard how absurd he sounded arguing with a child.
“Which book?” she asked.
He pointed.
Emma climbed onto a chair, grabbed the blue book, and handed it to him like a prize.
Her small fingers brushed his hand—warm, unafraid.
“Why do you use that chair?” she asked bluntly.
Adults avoided the question. Emma didn’t.
“My legs were hurt in an accident,” he said stiffly. “They don’t work.”
She considered that seriously. Then she placed her tiny hand on his knee.
“When I fall down, my mom rubs it and it helps. Want me to try?”
The innocence disarmed him completely.
Maria rushed in moments later, pale. “Emma! I’m so sorry—”
“She can stay,” Nate interrupted. “Just… teach her not to make a big deal about the chair.”
From that day, something shifted. Emma wasn’t afraid of him. She didn’t treat him like glass. She asked questions. She laughed. She sat beside him while he worked.
Until the day everything exploded.
“Get out!” Nate shouted.