"They were arranged for organizational efficiency?—"
"Help me paint," she interrupted, thrusting a brush towards him. "Just the base layer stuff. You don't need skill, just willingness to follow directions."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I'll do it wrong and it will bother me forever."
She blinked. That was... unexpectedly honest. And kind of sweet, in a neurotic, adorable way.
"You won't do it wrong. I'll show you exactly what to do."
"No."
"Tarmek."
"Edie." He said her name in a tone she couldn't read. "I am not painting your mural."
She nodded solemnly. "Okay. That's fine. You can hold things instead."
Five minutes later, he was standing next to her scaffold with an armful of paint containers, a brush roll hanging from one shoulder, and an expression of deep existential confusion.
"How did this happen?"
She couldn't help it. She laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and delighted, and reached down from her perch on the scaffolding to take a container from his arms.
"You're very susceptible to redirection when you're flustered."
"I am not flustered."
"You're holding my supplies because I said 'please' in a specific tone of voice. That's flustered."
He looked down at the remaining containers in his arms and looked up at her again. The confusion on his face shifted into something more dangerous.
"You manipulated me."
"Iredirectedyou. There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"Manipulation implies malicious intent. I just want someone to hand me things so I don't have to climb down every thirty seconds."
She held out her hand. He passed her a small container of emerald green, the exact shade she'd finally settled on after three days of color theory arguments. Their fingers brushed, and both of them went still.
The touch was nothing, a millisecond of contact, but it sent electricity shooting up her arm and made his breath catch in a way she absolutely heard.
Interesting, she thought.Very interesting.
She turned back to the wall before he could see her smile.
They worked in surprisingly comfortable silence for almost an hour. He handed her things. She painted. Occasionally she'd explain what she was doing and he'd listen with the intense focus he probably brought to game film review. It was... nice. Companionable. Like they'd done this a hundred times before.
Which meant, of course, that she had to ruin it.
The brush was loaded with emerald green. She was ostensibly reaching for a rag. But her elbow was perfectly positioned, hertiming immaculate, and when she "accidentally" stumbled, the brush dragged across his forearm in a thick, vivid streak.
"Oh no!" She pressed a hand to her chest in exaggerated dismay. "I'm so sorry! That was totally an accident!"
