Rafael leaned his shoulder against the half-painted wall, watching Emilia sit cross-legged on the floor with a glass of wine balanced in her hand. The paint tin still sat open, the smell of it mixing with the faint garlic of the leftover knots on the counter. It wasn’t pretty, not yet, but it was theirs.
“You hate it,” he said.
“I don’t hate it,” she replied, swirling the wine. “I hate the green. And the trim. And probably the floor.”
“So you hate everything except the fact we picked it.”
“That’s the part I like,” she admitted.
He smiled, small and unguarded. “That’s enough.”
Silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. She glanced at him, her gaze lingering like she was memorizing the line of his jaw, the faint scar under his lip. He could feel it, the weight of her attention.
“What are
