“Seriously,” I say, dipping the trowel into the mix. “Now pay attention, apprentice.”
After showing Stormy a couple of times what to do, I move behind her, guiding her hand with mine. Our fingers overlap on the handle, warm and steady.
“Gentle pressure,” I murmur. “Like frosting a cake.”
She tilts her head toward me, curiosity illuminating her eyes.
“You bake?”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Not really. But I’ve stolen enough icing from Mom to know how it works.”
Stormy laughs, soft and surprised, and as I begin to guide her movements, she says, “We should bake sometime.”
I laugh against her ear.
“I mean, I’ll probably be terrible at it. But sure.”
She turns to look at me then; brows lifted like she can’t quite believe I said yes. Like she expected me to pull away and dodge the invitation. I guess she’s not used to people choosing her. But why wouldn’t I? If it means spending more time with her, I’m in.
Her smile blooms slowly, lighting up her face. She turns back to the wall, and I feel the shift in her body. How she lifts and softens at the same time, her shoulders loosening as she leans into the moment.
After a few minutes of working together, I step back and give Stormy free rein. She scoops up a generous glob of plaster and slaps it onto the wall with the confidence of someone who’s watched just enough tutorials to be dangerous.
It doesn’t land how she expects. The plaster splats, then slides down in a slow, tragic slump.
“Okay, that’s rude,” she mutters.
I can’t help it, my mouth twitches into a grin, and I let out a low laugh before I can stop it.
Stormy turns, eyes narrowing. She leans forward, scoops a bit of plaster off the wall with her finger, and flicks it onto my shirt.
“Stop laughing. I’m trying.”
I glance down at the smear on my chest, then raise an eyebrow.
“You sure you want to start something here, Sunshine?” My voice dips into mischief.
She grimaces, already backing away with a grin tugging at her lips.
I stalk towards her, wiping the plaster from my shirt with two fingers. She squeals and ducks just as I lunge, but I catch her around the waist, pulling her close.
She thrashes in my arms, laughing breathlessly. I lift my hand in front of her face, and she shakes her head frantically, trying to dodge.
But I’m faster. I swipe a thick streak of plaster down her cheek and onto her neck.
“Ford!” She squeals my name through a high-pitched laugh in delight.
“Now we’re even,” I say, but the look she gives me says otherwise.
Within minutes, the room is filled with laughter, rogue plaster, and chaos. Her hair’s streaked with white; my arms look like I’ve been mauled by a rogue paintbrush, and she’s doubled over, laughing so hard she can barely breathe.
And I can’t stop grinning.
We settle onto the floor with our backs pressed against the freshly patched wall. It’s uneven, streaked in places, and a little lumpy in others, but somehow, it’s perfect.
Not because it’s flawless. But because Stormy did it.
