The realtor apologized for the paint like it was a moral failure. Walls the color of an overripe pear. A view of the river cut by a warehouse roof. A balcony just wide enough for two chairs and a plant that would die if either of them forgot to water it twice.
“I hate it,” Emilia said.
Rafael smiled. “We can fix paint.”
“Even the light switch plates are smug.”
“I can fix those too.”
She opened cupboards. One stuck, then gave with a sigh. “It smells like toast and dust.” She glanced back. “That’s not a complaint.”
He watched the way she stood in the kitchen and filled it. She looked like she belonged in rooms she chose. He wanted very badly for this to be one of them. The wanting scared him a little, which was new and good.
“We don’t have to decide today,” he said.
“We already decid
