Rosalie leans toward Wilson from Maceo's arms, crown slipping again. "I'm the boss today."
Wilson looks at her with perfect seriousness. "I can see that."
She accepts this with a small nod.
Luca releases Wilson's arm at last, but the brightness remains in him. "You brought documents."
"I did." Wilson lifts the folder, the practical reason for his visit returning without erasing the warmth that came first. "Intake protections for Ember House, and the oversight language for the welfare board. I wanted you to have them before the meeting today."
Luther moves closer, his attention sharpening. "Oversight language?"
"There's some wording around third-party audits that needs tightening." Wilson looks from Luther to me, then back to Luca. "Nothing urgent in the sense that it's already a problem, but enough that I didn't want it sitting in an inbox until afternoon."
We shift toward the kitchen because that's where every serious conversation in this house seems to end up. The children move with us in uneven formation, Rosalie still on Maceo's hip, Samuel now compliant because of the socks, James walking close enough to Blake that their sleeves brush. Blake looks down when it happens, and James doesn't look up. He just stays there.
The kitchen's still loud with morning: cereal bowls on the counter, a backpack half-zipped by the pantry, my forgotten mug sitting inside the microwave. Wilson follows us in, but he doesn't sit right away. He scans the room with old habit, taking in exits, windows, the position of each person, then the softer things. Blake standing near the stairs with his phone still in his hand. Luther watching him without interrupting. Me reaching for the microwave and stopping because I can't remember whether I already pressed start. Luca moving around me with an ease that makes the room feel less crowded. Maceo setting Rosalie on the counter long enough to adjust the strap on her little shoe, as natural with her as if he's done it every morning of her life.
Wilson misses very little.
"Sit," Luca tells him, pulling out one of the chairs at the kitchen table. "You drove all the way over here with legal documents before breakfast. That means you get coffee."
"I had coffee."
Luca's look is mild and unmoved.
Wilson sits.
I retrieve the mug from the microwave. The ceramic's cold in my hand. I stare at it for a second longer than necessary, then set it down without drinking. Luca notices, because of course he does, but Wilson's already opening the folder and spreading the documents across the table.
"The intake protections are strong," Wilson says, flattening the first page with his palm. "The issue's here." He taps a clause with one finger. "The welfare board wants room for third-party review. On its face, that makes sense. Oversight can protect residents if it's structured correctly."
Luther leans over the table, one hand braced beside the folder. "But?"
"But the language is too broad." Wilson's voice stays calm, practical. "It gives outside auditors access to resident narratives and intake histories if those records are deemed relevant to program impact. That phrase needs to be narrowed or removed."
Luca goes still beside me. His hand, which had been reaching for Rosalie's abandoned sweater, lowers to the counter. "Resident narratives."
Wilson nods once. "Stories. Trauma histories. Anything that can be packaged as proof the program works."
The kitchen noise seems to recede around the words. Samuel's humming under his breath at the table, making his dinosaur socks stomp against the chair leg. Rosalie's whispering to Maceo about her crown. James is showing Blake the zipper again, explaining what caught and how he fixed it. They're all stillmoving, still here, still safe, but the air around the adults changes.
Luther's jaw tightens. "No."
"That's my recommendation as well," Wilson says. "No outside access to resident stories. No marketing visits without written consent from the resident and the resident's advocate. No board-level authority to compel participation in impact materials. No photography, no donor walkthroughs in the intake wing, no language that allows the house to become part of a brand narrative."
Luca's fingers curl around the edge of the counter. "We'd never agree to that."
"I know," Wilson says, and his gaze softens when it returns to Luca. "I'm telling you where people start pushing before they call it pushing."
Blake looks up from his phone for the first time in several minutes, the sharpness in his eyes showing he caught every word. "Who wrote the clause?"
"The board's outside counsel." Wilson turns one of the pages around so Blake can see. "Not hostile by itself. Careless, maybe. Or intentionally flexible. Either way, flexible language becomes a problem when money enters the room."
Blake steps closer to the table, phone lowered completely now. He's pale, still tired, but there's a sharper focus in his eyes. Luther's hand moves to his back again, thumb pressing once at the base of his spine. Blake doesn't move away.
"You think this connects to the merger?" Blake asks.
"I think every large partnership comes with people who want a cleaner story than the truth," Wilson says. "I've seen it happen with nonprofits, shelters, clinics, clubs, even private welfare programs. A family like yours, a house like Ember House, rescue work with visible outcomes. People look at that and start seeing leverage."
