The paint finally stopped looking wet.
Emilia stood at the living-room wall, bare feet on a plastic drop cloth, roller dripping a last pale bead onto the tray. Streetlight had chased the pear back into the corners. She tipped her head, squinted, and caught the one fingertip of green hiding near the outlet.
“Hold still,” Rafael said, stepping in with a trim brush and the smugness of a man who’d learned to cut an edge. He touched the corner, wrist steady. “There. Perfect.”
“You like being right way too much.”
“Only about walls.” He leaned close, eyed his handiwork, then eyed her. “And about you.”
The room smelled like latex and lemon cleaner. Their mugs balanced on a cardboard box labeled misc—do not toss. A fan on the floor murmured; the deadbolt Elena installed made a deep, honest sou
