Saint’s POV
The morning sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the half-painted living room walls and all the little imperfections I was determined to fix before Shay came home. The house still smelled like fresh paint and sawdust, a testament to the work I’d been doing all week. It was one of those days where the air felt crisp and full of possibilities—the kind of day that made you believe you could accomplish anything.
I set down my coffee mug on a makeshift table (an upturned box we’d been using as a stand for paint cans) and rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the tension. The living room looked like a minor war zone: a ladder leaned precariously by the far wall, half-empty buckets of paint were scattered around, and there were more than a few discarded brushes soaking in a
