We stand under the spray, chest to chest. The water pressure is terrible, but the heat is good. Luke washes my back with a rough washcloth and that pine-scented bar soap. It scratches a little. It’s abrasive.
It feels like home.
“Turn around,” Luke murmurs.
I turn. He lathers the soap over my chest, his hands broad and heavy. He isn't rushing. He’s just cleaning me. It’s such a simple, domestic act, but it makes my throat tight.
I lean my forehead against his wet shoulder.
“I could get used to this,” I confess quietly.
“To the bad water pressure?” Luke chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest.
“To the company.”
Luke stops moving. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug under the water.
“Me too,” he says.
Getting out of the shower with Luke Silva is an exercise in logistics. The bathroom is roughly the size of a postage stamp, and the steam is so thick I’m concerned for the structural integrity of the drywall.
We step out into the bedroom. The air is cold.
Luke is in his boxer briefs—tight, black, excellent—toweling off his hair. I am essentially a naked, shivering newborn. I haven't located a towel yet. I am stark raving nude in the middle of Queens.
"Where is the—" I start.
CLICK. CLACK. TURN.
The sound of a dead-breaker unlocking echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.
I freeze. My nipples freeze.
"Luke," I squeak. "Did we get robbed?"
"Robbers don't use keys," Luke says, frowning. He lowers the towel from his head. "Wait. Oh god. No."
The front door flies open with enough force to rattle the windows.
"LUCAS MATEO SILVA!"
The voice is not human. It is the voice of Old Testament retribution.
"Mama?" Luke looks terrified. He steps forward, one hand holding his towel, wearing nothing but his Calvins.
"Are you keeping the towel?" I hiss, panicking. "Luke! I am nude! I am fully nude!"
I spin in a circle. There are no clothes. There are no towels. My pants are across the room, a journey I cannot make without flashing the hallway.
I grab the only thing within reach.
The empty cardboard box for the Breville Barista Express.
I clutch the cardboard to my crotch like a shield. It is large, thank god, but I am painfully aware that my ass is completely exposed to the elements.
Mama Ortiz stomps into the room. She is wearing a blindingly yellow raincoat and a scrub cap with cartoon avocados on it. She looks like a furious banana.
She stops.
