Solienne

The sun had long risen when Isabella stirred.

At first, it was slow — a dreamy stretch beneath warm sheets, the scent of fabric softener and rosemary drifting through the open window. A lazy blink toward the soft spill of golden light on the walls.

Then her eyes flew open.

Monday.

School.

She bolted upright, heart hammering.

The panic came before thought: the kind of panic that curled in her gut and shot straight through her limbs like electricity. Her hair, tangled from sleep, stuck to one side of her face in a frizzy wave. She yanked the blankets back, scrambled out of bed, her oversized shirt falling off one shoulder as she fumbled for the nearest pair of pants - inside out, who cared.

The clock on the wall said 9:27 a.m.

I've missed registration. Oh my god.

She threw open the bedroom door, barefoot, a hurricane of confusion and hair. The hall felt too long, the stairs too wide. She took them too fast.

On the third step from the bottom, her heel slipped.

A sharp gasp, a flail-

And then arms. Strong and solid. Catching her like it was rehearsed.

Francesco blinked down at her, blinking once, then twice, like he wasn't quite sure how she'd materialised in his arms.

"You okay?" he asked, steadying her gently.

She tried to pull away, breathless. "I - I'm late - I slept through - school-"

He blinked again. "You thought you had to go to school?"

"I do have to go to school!" she cried, eyes wild. "I'm late - God, I can't afford to miss anything-"

Francesco didn't let go.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. "Adorable."

She froze. "What?"

"That little storm you've got going on." He nodded at her hair. "Bedhead, panic, mismatched socks - adorable."

Antonio leaned against the banister, sipping coffee in a hoodie and sweatpants. "You're not going to school today," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"You're not going to school this week," he clarified.

"But I - why-?"

"Leo's orders," Francesco said, still steadying her by the elbow. "He wants you to settle in. Rest. Heal."

Her mouth opened, then closed. "But... I can't just not go. They'll mark me down as-"

"Already sorted," Antonio interrupted. "Giovanni called the school yesterday. They know. Something about medical leave, psychological adjustment, new guardianship. Sounded very official."

She looked between them. "You're serious."

Francesco grinned. "Deadly."

She let out a breath - halfway between a sigh and a whimper - and sat down hard on the bottom step. "I thought I was going to get expelled."

Antonio tossed her a banana from the fruit bowl. "You thought wrong. Eat. Breathe. Maybe brush your hair."

"I was panicking," she mumbled.

Francesco sat beside her. "We noticed."

They sat like that for a moment — the girl in wrinkled sleepwear and two boys in half-washed hoodies, the morning sun pooling across the tiled floor.

Later that morning

With Giovanni finally back at work - reluctantly, and only after Leonardo promised to call him immediately if anything seemed off - the twins took over babysitting duties.

"She's not a puppy," Antonio had grumbled.

"Sure," Francesco replied. "But have you seen her eat toast? She kind of is."

They gave her a tour of the house, room by ridiculous room.

The music room had three guitars, a baby grand piano, and a drum kit no one claimed. Francesco tapped out a messy rhythm on it anyway, grinning as she clapped along.

The library smelled of old paper and something citrusy. Antonio admitted, quietly, that it was his favourite room - and that the fireplace worked, but only if you asked it nicely.

She laughed at that. A soft, startled sound.

Francesco glanced over and froze mid-step.

Antonio turned too.

She stood near the window, sunlight dancing on her hair, cheeks flushed from walking, her grin wide and unguarded.

Francesco's voice dropped. "Adorable."

Antonio didn't argue this time. "Yeah."

She caught them staring.

"What?"

"Nothing," they chorused, too quickly.

She rolled her eyes, smiling still.

They showed her the rooftop garden last - overgrown, wild, but filled with tiny shoots of mint and thyme and a stubborn tomato plant clinging to life.

"It's kind of chaotic," Francesco said.

"I like it," she murmured. "It feels... alive."

They sat on the stone ledge while she poked at a wilted basil plant with a stick. Francesco told her she needed to name it.

"Why?"

"So it doesn't die on us. Plants need self-esteem."

She snorted - actually snorted - and clapped a hand over her mouth.

Francesco beamed. Antonio just watched her for a long moment, quiet, until she looked up.

"What?" she asked.

He shrugged. "You smiled."

She blinked. "You make it sound like I haven't."

"Not like that."

That night

Isabella wandered into the hallway around midnight, a glass of water in her hand, padding softly on the warm floorboards.

Leonardo wasn't in any of the usual rooms.

But when she passed the study, the door was cracked just enough to see the light.

She didn't open it. Didn't knock.

But through the gap, she saw him at his desk - sleeves rolled, hair swept back, reading something with a furrow between his brows. The lamp cast a soft golden halo over the papers, and beside him, a second glass of water sat - untouched.

She watched for a few seconds.

He didn't move.

Didn't look up.

But somehow, she knew he knew she was there.

She backed away quietly, her chest warm and strange.

Because even when he was absent - even when he said nothing - she never felt unseen.