Rafael
We woke on the floor again, sheet rucked under one hip, her hair a dark spill across my arm. The light coming through the bare window was kind—the kind that forgives half-finished work. Paint had dried into itself overnight; Streetlight looked like it belonged. I lay there long enough to count five slow breaths, then another five. She made the sixth sound like a decision.
“Coffee,” she said into the crook of my elbow.
“I’m already thinking it.”
“Think louder.”
I slid out from under her, padded to the sink, and ground beans with the hand-crank Nora swears is a personality test. The kettle hissed; the mug warmed my palm. By the time I brought it back, Emilia had pulled her hair into a knot that pretended not to care and was sitting cross-legged, reading the board packet again lik
