Saturday arrived with the kind of morning that felt freshly washed.
The sky was pale blue, clouds soft and harmless, wind light enough to move leaves but not plans. Ava stood by the bus stop just outside campus gates, hands tucked into the pockets of her jean jacket, backpack slung behind her.
She had woken up early.
Not because she needed to — but because sleep had been stubborn.
Mia had watched her braid her hair with exaggerated seriousness, humming loudly just to annoy her, and then hugged her from behind before she left.
"Be yourself," Mia had whispered. "That's the part he likes."
Ava had rolled her eyes.
But she had smiled too.
Now she stood waiting for Recee.
She didn't know why her palms were slightly sweaty.
He's just a friend.
He's just visiting.
You're breathing weird, stop it.
A car slowed.
She expected a taxi.
She got a sleek, quiet black car instead — the kind you only saw near hotels where rich weddings were happening. It pulled up smoothly beside her.
The window lowered.
Recee leaned slightly toward the steering wheel.
"Morning," he said.
Ava blinked.
"You drive?"
"Yes."
"You… own a car?"
He tilted his head. "Should I apologize?"
She sputtered. "No, I just— you always take the school shuttle."
He shrugged lightly. "I felt like driving today."
He did not add: I didn't want you to spend money on transport. Or deal with crowded buses. Or get tired.
He simply unlocked the door.
Ava climbed in, trying not to stare at the polished interior, trying not to think about how none of this matched "ordinary student." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
Recee kept his attention on the road, expression calm, sleeves rolled slightly up his arms. Morning light brushed his profile, softening the always composed lines of his face.
No music played.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
It just… existed.
"Thank you," Ava said suddenly.
"For what?"
"For coming."
He glanced at her then — just a fraction of a second — but enough to warm something quietly inside her.
"Thank you for inviting me," he replied.
Traffic rolled by slowly. Roadside shops passed: fruit sellers, mechanics, kids chasing tires. Outside the city, buildings softened into stretches of trees and scattered houses.
They drove in comfortable quiet until she spoke again.
"It's not fancy," she said, voice careful. "The orphanage, I mean. It's old. Roof leaks when it rains. Paint peels. But it's… home."
He nodded once. "Then it's worth seeing."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
She looked out the window.
No pity in his voice. No sugar-coated sympathy. Just quiet respect.
The road narrowed into a dusty lane flanked by short fences and stubborn grass. Children's laughter floated faintly from ahead. The building finally came into view — faded yellow walls, blue gate, bright handprints painted across the entrance like flowers.
The moment the gatekeeper saw Ava, his face split into a grin.
"Ava!"
She barely had time to open the door before two small bodies slammed into her legs.
"Big sister Ava!"
"You're back!"
Ava laughed, bending down, wrapping both kids into an embrace that smelled like soap and sunshine.
"I missed you too, troublemakers."
Recee stepped out of the car, watched in stillness as more children appeared. A little boy with mismatched slippers. A girl with ribbons. Another clutching a stuffed bear.
They didn't hesitate.
They didn't analyze.
They didn't measure him.
They just stared for one second, decided he was safe because Ava brought him — then pulled him forward like gravity.
"Are you sister Ava's friend?"
"Why is your face serious?"
"Do you know how to play football?"
"Can you carry me?"
In two minutes, the CEO the business world whispered about had a child clinging to his left leg, one tugging his sleeve, and another inspecting his wristwatch with deep suspicion.
Ava burst into laughter, bright and unguarded.
"I'm so sorry—"
He shook his head.
"It's fine."
It was more than fine.
One tiny girl held up her arms silently. He paused only half a second before lifting her gently onto his hip. She giggled like wind chimes.
Ava watched.
Something softened inside her — something deeper than she expected.
Madam Ruth, the matron — gray hair in a bun, eyes warm but sharp — walked out with slow measured steps.
"My Ava," she said.
Ava straightened, smile wobbling. "Mama Ruth."
They hugged.
No words for a second.
Just history.
Then Madam Ruth turned her gaze to Recee. She scanned him the way only lifelong caretakers did.
"And who is this quiet young man?" she asked.
Recee bowed his head slightly. "Recee."
"A friend?" she asked Ava.
Ava hesitated.
Then nodded. "Yes."
Madam Ruth smiled knowingly. "Welcome."
The tour wasn't formal because nothing here was. Kids tugged them room to room. They showed cracked windows proudly because they decorated them with paper stars. They bragged about their vegetables in the yard. They fought about who made the best drawing.
Recee listened to every voice like it was important.
He knelt to their level when they spoke.
He didn't flinch at the broken things.
He noticed them.
And in quiet moments where they weren't looking, his gaze lingered on the worn-out roof tiles, the patched water tank, the tired playground swings.
With thought.
Lunch was simple — rice and stew, served in mismatched plates. They ate seated on benches; conversations flowed like stream water. The oldest boy announced importantly that he would become a pilot. The littlest girl declared she already was a princess.
Ava laughed until she forgot she had ever been afraid to invite him.
Later, in the small garden, the kids chased each other while the wind played with laundry on thin lines. Ava sat on the wooden bench beneath the mango tree. Recee sat next to her, not too close, not too far.
She spoke first.
"I grew up here."
He listened.
"I used to think I'd leave and never look back. That moving forward meant not returning."
She watched the children run.
"But every time life gets loud, my mind walks back here. To the noise. To the sharing. To the fact that even without blood, we became family."
She swallowed.
"People think being an orphan means being empty. It actually means… you learn how to hold on tighter."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then:
"I'm glad you didn't leave this behind."
She turned to him, surprised.
He was looking ahead, voice almost quiet enough for only the wind to hear.
"If you did," he continued, "you wouldn't be you anymore."
Her chest tightened.
"Thank you," she whispered.
A ball bounced to their feet. A boy yelled, "Pass!" Ava kicked it back with a laugh. The moment broke into sunlight again.
Later, when she wasn't watching, Recee stepped aside for a phone call. His tone softened, but eyes sharpened slightly as he spoke.
"Roof repair," he said simply. "And new water tank. Yes. Anonymous."
He hung up before he could think too long about why he cared so deeply.
Or why her world felt like one he wanted to protect without making noise.
As evening rolled in, shadows lengthened and goodbyes came with sticky hands and stubborn hugs.
A little boy tugged Recee's sleeve.
"Will you come back?"
Recee looked at Ava.
Then back at the boy.
"Yes," he said.
Ava pretended not to hear the small flutter in her chest.
They left as the sky dipped orange.
Halfway back, Ava finally spoke.
"You were… really good with them."
He raised a brow. "Was I supposed to be bad?"
She laughed, shaking her head.
"I mean… thank you. For today."
"You don't have to thank me for being some you wanted me to be."
She turned back to the window.
Silence fell again — gentle, full.
But tonight, it wasn't the silence of strangers.
It was something warmer.
And neither noticed that somewhere far away, an old case file was being dusted off, a picture of a much younger Ava clipped to the front, and a hand pausing over her name like recognition just brushed memory.