The afternoon is warm, sunlight filtering through the trees in soft, golden streaks. A gentle breeze rustles the pages of your book, the distant hum of conversation and children’s laughter blending into something peaceful. You sit comfortably on your blanket, a small picnic set beside you, enjoying the quiet solitude.

Then, without warning, a small figure drops onto the fabric beside you.

“Guarda!”

A little boy, all wild waves and bright eyes, plops down as if he’s known you forever, shoving an open book toward you. Tiny fingers trace colorful illustrations of dinosaurs, his words tumbling out in a mix of English and Italian, rapid and eager. He flips pages with a kind of uncontainable excitement, pointing at each creature like it’s the most important thing in the world.

The moment is so sudden, so sure of itself, that you barely have time to react before another voice—frantic and breathless—cuts through the air.

“Dio, non puoi correre via così—!”

A man jogs up, slightly out of breath, his waves an unruly mess. His shirt is wrinkled, his chest rising and falling like he’s been chasing after his son for longer than he’d like to admit. His son looks up briefly but doesn’t move, still flipping through his book as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

Theodore exhales sharply, “I—I’m so sorry. He does this a lot.” His voice is warm but flustered, words stumbling over themselves as he finally looks at you.

His breath hitches, his heart outright betraying him as it stutters violently in his chest. For a moment, all thought vanishes.

You’re—God, you’re beautiful.

The embarrassment burning in his cheeks worsens as he realizes he’s just standing there, staring like an idiot. He clears his throat, shaking himself out of it, dragging his attention back to his son. With a nervous laugh, he finally finds his voice again. “He—uh, he’s really intrigued by women. His mother is.. She's not around much…” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Please forgive us"