“It is.” He hesitated, studying the partially knitted sock. “That’s not going to fit you. It’s too small.”

Diesel extended his leg, turning his size fifteen boot one way, then the other. “Nope. Which is fine, because they’re not for me.”

Michael hesitated again. “If that’s the leg, it looks too big for Dr. Dani, too.”

“Because they’re not for her, either.” He’d intended them to be for Dani, but once he’d put a room’s distance between himself and her intoxicating scent, he’d been able to think more clearly. He’d made her a ton of scarves, shawls, and mittens. He had enough holiday and “just because” gifts for her to last for a long time. She didn’t need any more. But Michael did. And once he’d felt the boy watching him so timidly, he’d known he’d made the right call. “Hold up your leg.”

Michael complied, something like hope creeping into his eyes.

Diesel dug into his bag and found his knitting kit, pulling out a measuring tape. “Measure your leg, about two inches below your knee.”

Drawing a visible breath, Michael again complied and told him the measurement.

Diesel eyed the sock-in-progress. “Perfect.” He rolled up the measuring tape and stowed his kit. “You wear a size eight shoe?”

“Eight and a half.”

“I guessed pretty close.”

Michael swallowed hard. “They’re for me?”

Diesel met the boy’s eyes and nodded. “They’re for you.”

Tears filled Michael’s eyes and he lurched to his feet, abruptly interested in the vase of flowers on the coffee table. He dashed at the tears, took a few seconds to regroup, then turned to face Diesel. “Nobody’s ever made me anything before.”

Diesel’s heart cracked. “I’d say you’re due, wouldn’t you?”

Michael looked at the floor, then back at Diesel, the raw hope in his eyes painful to witness. “Did she mean it?”

Diesel didn’t have to ask what the boy meant. “Yes. She meant it. She’s already called Children’s Services and started the process.”

Michael seemed to wilt, one hand rising to cover his mouth, the other reaching out to steady himself as he lowered to sit on the coffee table. As soon as his butt hit the glass, he lurched back to his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sit there.”

“I think it’s strong enough to hold you,” Diesel said. He patted the sofa. “But cushion is more comfortable than glass.”

Michael sank onto the sofa, dropping his face into his hands.

Diesel gave him space, resuming his knitting. After a few minutes, Michael lifted his head, cast his gaze about frantically for something to look at besides Diesel, and settled on his laptop screen.

“What’s that?”