Chapter 12: Primer, Paint, and Payback
The drop cloths were still spread across the floor when Jordan woke up.
He knew this because the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the ceiling—unpainted, still that godawful beige that had been there since the seventies—and the second thing he saw was Maria's bare leg tangled in a crumpled corner of canvas, her foot resting on a paint can like she'd claimed it as territory.
She was snoring. Softly. The kind of snore that wasn't really a snore, just breathing with attitude.
He watched her for a minute. Maybe two. The morning light came through the window they hadn't bothered to cover yet, catching the dried primer on her cheek—that stripe she'd smeared across her face like war paint the day before. It had faded overnight, flaking at the edges, but it was still there. Still marking her.
His chest did something complicated.
He ignored it.
"Maria."
Nothing.
"Maria."
She swatted at the air like it had personally offended her.
"We gotta get up."
"Why."
"Because we have shit to do."
"We always have shit to do." She rolled onto her back, eyes still closed. "That's what having a house means. Shit to do. Endless shit."
"Welcome to adulthood."
"I hate adulthood."
"You hate everything before ten a.m."
"True." She opened one eye. Looked at him. "You've got paint on your dick."
He looked down.
She wasn't wrong. There was a smear of dried primer along his shaft, flaking off in little white specks. He must have missed it in the shower last night. Or maybe it had transferred from her thighs when they'd—
"Don't look so proud of yourself," she said.
"I'm not proud."
"You're literally smiling."
"I'm smiling because you're beautiful."
"I'm covered in paint and I smell like a hardware store."
"Still beautiful."
She groaned and rolled away from him, reaching for her jeans. They were crumpled on the floor, stiff with dried primer, and she held them up like they were a crime scene.
"These are ruined."
"They're art."
"They're fucking ruined, Jordan."
"You can buy new ones."
"With what money?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
---
The coffee maker had arrived.
It was sitting on the kitchen counter—the one they'd wiped down three times and still couldn't get clean—a shiny black thing with a timer and a grinder and more buttons than either of them knew what to do with.
Maria had ordered it two weeks ago. Before the move. Before everything.
"Where did this come from?" she said.
"You bought it."
"I bought it?"
"With your credit card. I remember because you yelled at me for looking over your shoulder."
"I always yell at you for looking over my shoulder."
"True."
She opened the box. Pulled out the instruction manual. Stared at it.
"This is in French."
"What?"
"It's in French. And Spanish. And—" She flipped a page. "German?"
"Just use the pictures."
"The pictures are hieroglyphics."
"Then use YouTube."
She looked at him. "You want me to YouTube how to use a coffee maker."
"I want you to have coffee so you stop being a monster."
She threw the manual at him. He caught it. Barely.
---
They figured it out eventually.
The coffee was bitter. Too strong. The grind was wrong—apparently there was a setting for that, buried somewhere in the menu system—but it was hot and it was caffeine and neither of them complained.
They drank it standing in the kitchen, leaning against opposite counters, the silence comfortable and worn.
"So," Maria said. "The wall."
"What about it?"
"We have to repaint."
"Yep."
"Because of—"
"Yep."
"—the paint fight."
"And the other thing."
She snorted. "The other thing."
"The thing where I came on your back."
"You're disgusting."
"You loved it."
She didn't deny it. Just took another sip of coffee and looked at him over the rim of her mug.
"The hardware store opens at nine," she said.
"It's eight-forty."
"Then we have twenty minutes."
"For what?"
She set down her mug. Walked toward him. The dried paint on her cheek caught the light and he thought about licking it off.
"Shower's still warm," she said.
"We don't have a shower curtain."
"We have a shower."
"Water gets everywhere."
"I'll clean it up."
"You never clean anything up."
She reached him. Put her hand flat on his chest. Pushed him back against the counter.
"I'll clean it up," she repeated.
His cock twitched. He was still naked—hadn't bothered to find clothes after the coffee—and she could see everything. Every reaction. Every twitch.
She looked down. Looked back up.
"Twenty minutes," she said.
"Fifteen."
"I need more than fifteen."
"Then stop talking."
---
The shower was cold for the first thirty seconds.
Then it wasn't.
Maria stepped in first, yelping at the temperature, and Jordan followed before she could adjust it. She shoved him. He shoved back. And then the water warmed and her hands were on him and his hands were on her and the banter died.
He pressed her against the tile. Cold against her back, hot against her front. She gasped—that little intake of breath that always made his stomach clench—and he swallowed it with his mouth.
Her skin was slick. Warm. He ran his hands down her sides, over her hips, grabbing her ass and pulling her closer. She was already wet—not from the shower—and he could feel it against his thigh.
"Look at you," he murmured.
"Shut up."
"Already soaked."
"It's the water."
"Bullshit."
She bit his lip. Hard.
He slid his hand between her legs anyway. Two fingers, spreading her open, finding her clit and pressing down. Her hips jerked. Her nails dug into his shoulders.
"Jordan—"
"What."
"Fuck me."
"Here?"
"Here. Now. Fuck me."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He grabbed her by the hips and lifted. She wrapped her legs around him, back sliding against the tile, and he pressed the head of his cock against her entrance. Just there. Just teasing.
She groaned.
"Don't you dare."
"Don't I dare what?"
"Don't you fucking dare tease me right now."
"You're so demanding."
"I'll kill you."
"If you kill me, you don't get this."
He pushed inside.
She was tight. Wet. The angle was wrong—shower sex was always a logistical nightmare—but she didn't care and neither did he. He drove up into her, hard, and she braced herself against the walls, one hand on each side, nails scratching at the grout.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Good?"
"Harder."
He gave her harder.
The water pounded against his back. Steam filled the small bathroom. Her hair was plastered to her face and she didn't care, just kept looking at him with those eyes, those damn eyes, like he was the only thing that mattered.
He fucked her like he was trying to prove something. Like he was trying to tell her everything he couldn't say out loud. Every thrust was a word. Every grunt, a sentence.
Her legs tightened around him.
"Close," she said.
"Already?"
"Shut up and—" She broke off. Moaned. "Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping."
"Don't you fucking stop."
He didn't.
The tile was slick and his feet kept slipping, but he held her up, held her against the wall, pounded into her until her whole body seized up and she came with a scream she had to bite into his shoulder.
He followed a moment later.
Buried deep. Pumping inside her. Emptying himself into her with a groan that echoed off the tile.
The shower kept running.
Neither of them moved.
---
"Ten minutes," Maria said.
"We're late."
"Are we?"
"Store opens in ten minutes."
"We can be late."
"We can't be late. We need paint."
She looked at him. He was toweling off with a towel they'd stolen from the motel—wait, no, that was the quilt. This towel was from the dorm. It was thin and scratchy and smelled like chlorine.
"Fine," she said. "Let's go."
She grabbed her clothes. The paint-stained jeans. A sweatshirt she'd worn for three days straight.
"You're going to the store in that?"
"I'm going to the store in whatever covers my ass." She pulled the jeans on. Grimaced. "Or tries to cover it."
The jeans were stiff. Cracked. Like wearing cardboard.
"You look like a painter who got robbed."
"I look like a woman who got fucked in a shower and is running late for a hardware store."
"Same thing."
She flipped him off. He laughed.
---
The hardware store was called Ernie's.
It was the kind of place that had been there for fifty years and would be there for fifty more. No big-box chains. No corporate sheen. Just aisle after aisle of everything you could possibly need and a few things you couldn't.
Ernie himself was behind the counter. He was seventy, maybe eighty, with a bald head and a mustache that had probably been there since the Johnson administration.
"Help you?" he said.
"Paint," Jordan said.
"This is a hardware store. We've got paint."
"We need primer. And—" He glanced at Maria. "—something for the walls. Color."
"What color?"
Maria stepped forward. "Yellow."
"Yellow?"
"Packers yellow."
Ernie blinked. "Packers."
"Yes."
"As in—"
"Green Bay. Football. The Packers."
Ernie looked at Jordan. Looked at Maria. Looked at the paint-stained jeans and the sweatshirt that probably hadn't been washed since the Clinton administration.
"You two are the ones who moved into the old Larson house."
"Uh—"
"Everyone's been talking about it. Young kids from Minnesota. Moving to Green Bay. Whole town's been wondering why."
Maria crossed her arms. "We like the football team."
"So I see." Ernie didn't smile, but something in his face shifted. "Yellow we can do. What shade do you want?"
---
They spent an hour in the paint aisle.
Ernie brought out swatches. Then more swatches. Then a book of paint samples that weighed as much as a small child. Maria went through every page. Twice.
"This one," she said, pointing.
"That's butter."
"It's golden."
"It's butter."
"It's the same color as the Packers' helmets."
"The Packers' helmets are more yellow."
"You're wrong."
"I'm never wrong."
Ernie watched them argue with the patience of a man who'd seen a thousand couples argue about paint. He'd probably seen a thousand more.
"This one," Maria said finally. Pointing to something called Golden Retriever.
"That's a dog color."
"It's iconic."
"It's a dog color."
"Shut up and buy the paint."
---
They bought the paint.
Two gallons of primer. Two gallons of Golden Retriever. Brushes. Rollers. Somehow their cart also ended up with a doormat that said WELCOME TO THE PACKER HOUSE in green and yellow letters.
Maria had put it in the cart. Jordan had said nothing.
Ernie rang them up. Gave them a discount. Said it was for new customers.
"New residents," he corrected. "New neighbors."
Maria looked at him. "Are we neighbors?"
"You live two blocks from me. That makes you neighbors."
She didn't say anything. Just nodded. Like it meant something.
---
The truck—Jordan's truck, the one he'd had since high school—rumbled back toward the house.
Maria was in the passenger seat. The paint cans were in the back. The doormat was on her lap.
"Golden Retriever," Jordan said.
"Shut up."
"That's going to be hideous."
"It's going to be beautiful."
"It's going to look like someone painted their house with dog fur."
"I'm going to divorce you."
"We're not married."
"Then I'm going to leave. Start a new life. Change my name."
"You'd miss me."
She looked out the window. The houses passed by. The trees. The dog walker from yesterday, who waved again.
"I'd miss you," she said.
He reached over. Squeezed her knee.
"Me too."
---
Back at the house, they taped the baseboards. Laid drop cloths. Opened windows.
The primer went on first. Bright white, covering the evidence of yesterday's chaos. The paint splatters. The other splatters. The memories.
Maria was on the ladder. Jordan was on the floor.
"We're going to have to do two coats," she said.
"Of primer?"
"Of everything. The walls soak it up."
"Walls are greedy."
"Walls are evil."
He laughed. Kept painting.
By noon, the primer was dry. By two, the first coat of Golden Retriever was on the wall.
It was very yellow.
"See," Maria said. "Packers."
"It's very yellow."
"It's perfect."
"It's going to blind us when the sun hits it."
"Worth it."
He looked at her. Standing on the ladder. Paint stripe still faintly visible on her cheek—he'd tried to wash it off in the shower but it hadn't come all the way. Sweatshirt sleeves rolled up. Hair tied in a knot that was already falling apart.
She was a mess.
She was beautiful.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm admiring."
"You're staring."
"Same thing."
She turned back to the wall. But he saw the smile. The small one. The one she tried to hide.
He went back to painting.
The afternoon passed. The second coat went on. The yellow got deeper, richer, more Packers-y. By evening, the wall was done and they stood back to admire it.
"Not bad," Maria said.
"We're not painters."
"We're not. But it's not bad."
"It's gonna look good when we're finished."
"The rest of the room?"
"Everything."
She looked around. The half-peeled wallpaper. The bare floors. The furniture that was still mostly in boxes. The window without curtains. The door without a door.
"We have a lot of work to do," she said.
"Yeah."
"A lot."
"Yeah."
She leaned into him. He put his arm around her shoulder.
"Worth it?" she said.
He looked at the wall. The yellow. The light. The house.
"Worth it," he said.
---
That night, they ate takeout on the floor.
Chinese food from a place Ernie had recommended. Orange chicken and fried rice and egg rolls that were too greasy and exactly what they needed.
The living room was still a wreck. The couch was still half-finished. The TV was still on the plywood.
But the wall was yellow.
Their wall. Their yellow.
"This is good," Maria said, mouth full.
"The food?"
"The everything."
He didn't say anything. Just ate his egg roll and watched her.
The furnace rattled.
The wind blew.
And somewhere in Green Bay, Wisconsin, two people who had no idea what they were doing sat on the floor of their half-finished house and felt, for the first time in a long time, like they were exactly where they were supposed to be.
Maria finished her food. Tossed the container aside. Stretched out on the drop cloth.
"Come here," she said.
He set down his own food. Lay down next to her. The drop cloth crinkled beneath them, still dusty with dried primer, still smelling like paint and possibility.
"We need to do the bedroom next," she said.
"Tomorrow."
"And the bathroom."
"Tomorrow."
"And the kitchen."
"Maybe next week."
She turned her head. Looked at him.
"Gonna take forever, isn't it?"
"Probably."
"Months."
"Years."
She sighed. Content. Happy.
"Good thing we're not going anywhere."
He reached over. Took her hand.
"No," he said. "We're not."
They stayed on the floor until the takeout containers started to smell.
Maria got up first, groaning like an old woman, her joints popping from hours of painting and fucking and lying on hard surfaces. Jordan watched her walk to the kitchen—the swing of her hips in those ruined jeans, the way she scratched her ass absentmindedly—and felt something expand in his chest that he refused to name.
"Couch tomorrow," she said, opening the fridge. "We need a real couch."
"We have a couch."
"We have a piece of shit that smells like your dorm room."
"It's vintage."
"It's garbage."
She grabbed two beers—the good kind, the ones they'd bought for a special occasion that hadn't happened yet—and brought them back. Handed him one. Sat down cross-legged on the drop cloth.
"Vintage garbage," she amended.
"Thank you."
They drank in silence for a minute. The house creaked around them. Old bones settling. The furnace kicked on with its usual death rattle and Maria didn't even flinch anymore.
"You know what I was thinking about?" she said.
"What?"
"The first game. Freshman year. When you wore that cheesehead and I thought you were the biggest idiot I'd ever met."
"I remember. You told me I looked like a dairy farmer."
"You did."
"I looked like a king."
"You looked like a fucking cheese wheel that grew legs."
He laughed. Took a pull from his beer.
"You stayed anyway."
She looked at him. Something shifted in her face. Something soft and dangerous.
"I stayed anyway."
---
Two months passed.
They didn't feel like two months. They felt like a single breath, stretched and pulled and reshaped into something that couldn't be measured in weeks anymore.
The bedroom got painted first. A soft gray-blue that Maria picked after three days of agonizing. Jordan had wanted green. She'd told him to shut up. He'd shut up.
The bathroom came next. A bright white that made the whole room glow. They installed a shower curtain—navy blue, with little anchors on it—and Jordan made a joke about maritime law that Maria didn't laugh at.
The kitchen took the longest. The cabinets were warped. The countertops were cracked. The floor had a stain in the corner that neither of them wanted to identify.
"We could just cover it," Maria said.
"With what?"
"A rug."
"In the kitchen?"
"People do it."
"We're not people. We're Packers fans. We have standards."
She threw a sponge at him. He caught it. They fucked on the kitchen floor that night, surrounded by paint samples and cabinet doors, and afterward she said, "We're going to have to repaint this whole wall."
He laughed then. Same as before, same as always.
"Worth it," he said.
---
The living room became the crown jewel.
The yellow wall. The green accent. The couch they finally bought—a real one, from a furniture store, with cushions and everything. The TV mounted on the wall instead of balanced on plywood. The Packers pennant hanging above it, where it belonged.
Maria found curtains at a thrift store. Green and gold stripes. Jordan said they looked like something a grandmother would own. She said his grandmother had great taste and hung them anyway.
They filled the bookshelf with things that mattered. His football books. Her design portfolios. The box marked US, emptied now, its contents scattered across shelves and walls and surfaces like artifacts from an earlier civilization.
The photo of them at the tailgate. The ticket stubs. The napkin with the play diagram. The key to her old dorm room, still small and bright, sitting on the windowsill.
On the last day of the renovation, Jordan stood in the doorway and looked at what they'd made.
The house wasn't perfect. The floors creaked. The windows leaked. The furnace still rattled like it was dying and had been dying for thirty years.
But it was theirs. Every inch of it. Every scratch and stain and speck of paint.
Maria came up behind him. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Rested her chin on his shoulder.
"Not bad," she said.
"For two idiots from Minnesota?"
"We're not from Minnesota anymore."
He turned. Looked at her.
"What are we?"
She thought about it. Really thought about it. Her brow furrowed the way it did when she was working through a design problem.
"Green Bay," she said. "We're Green Bay."
---
Three days later, Jordan got the job.
It came in an email at 7:43 in the morning. He was still in bed, still half-asleep, scrolling through his phone because Maria had stolen the blanket and he was too lazy to fight her for it.
Subject line: Sports Writer Position—Green Bay Press-Gazette.
He sat up so fast the mattress squeaked.
Maria stirred. "What."
"I got the job."
"What job?"
"The job. The writing job. The one I applied for two weeks ago."
She opened her eyes. Blinked at him. The information processed slowly, the way it always did before coffee.
"You got the job."
"I got the job."
She screamed.
It was a real scream. The kind that came from somewhere deep in her chest. The kind that made the neighbor's dog start barking.
Jordan dropped his phone and grabbed her and they rolled off the bed together in a tangle of sheets and limbs. She was laughing. He was laughing. The floor was cold but neither of them cared.
"Holy shit," she said. "Holy shit, holy shit—"
"I know."
"You're going to be a sportswriter."
"I know."
"For the Packers."
"And the rest of the NFL, technically—"
"Who gives a fuck about the rest of the NFL?"
He kissed her. Hard. She kissed him back.
That was when things got serious.
---
He pushed her onto her back.
The floor was hard beneath them—they hadn't made it back onto the bed—and she gasped when her shoulders hit the wood. He didn't apologize. Just climbed on top of her, knees on either side of her hips, and looked down.
She was still in her sleep shirt. Old Packers shirt, faded green, hem riding up to her ribs. Her hair was a mess. Her mouth was open.
"Jordan—"
"Shut up."
She shut up.
He pulled the shirt over her head. She lifted her arms to help. Then she was bare beneath him, tits flushed and nipples hard from the cold, and he took a moment to just look.
Two months of painting and drywall and late nights and early mornings. Two months of eating takeout on the floor and showering together because the hot water ran out if they didn't. Two months of building something.
She was the best thing he'd ever built.
"What," she said.
"Nothing."
"You're staring again."
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
He lowered his head. Took her nipple in his mouth. She arched up, gasping, hands flying to his hair.
He sucked hard. She yelped.
"Too much?"
"Never."
He moved to the other one. Gave it the same treatment. Her hips were grinding up against him already, desperate for friction, and he could feel the heat of her through her underwear.
He slid his hand down. Past her stomach. Past the waistband of her shorts. Into the wet heat between her legs.
She was soaked. Dripping. Her cunt was hot and swollen and so fucking ready he almost forgot to breathe.
"Jordan—"
"What."
"Fuck me. Please. Fuck me now."
"Please?"
"Don't be an asshole."
"Say it again."
"Fuck me. Please. I need your cock. I need you inside me."
He yanked her shorts down. Not gently. Not slow. They came off in a tangle and he threw them somewhere and then his own underwear was gone and he was pressing against her, the head of his cock sliding through her slick folds.
"So wet," he said.
"Shut up—"
"So fucking wet for me."
"I'll kill you."
"After."
He pushed inside.
She took all of him in one stroke, her body opening up like it had been waiting, like it had been made for this. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her nails dug into his back.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Good?"
"Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning to."
He fucked her.
Not slow. Not tender. Hard and deep and punishing, the way she liked it. The way she always liked it. Every thrust drove the breath out of her lungs, made her whole body jerk against the floor.
The house creaked around them.
The sun pushed through the curtains.
Maria's fingers found his ass. Pulled him deeper.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
He fucked her until sweat dripped down his back and his thighs burned and he couldn't tell where his body ended and hers began. The wood floor was unforgiving beneath them. Neither of them cared.
"You're gonna come," he said. Not a question.
"Yes—"
"Touch yourself."
She didn't hesitate. One hand left his back, slid between their bodies, found her clit. She rubbed fast, desperate, matching the rhythm of his hips.
"Close," she gasped. "So close—"
"Come for me."
She did.
It hit her like a wave. Her whole body clenched, cunt tightening around his cock like a fist, and she screamed his name so loud the windows probably rattled. He kept fucking her through it, didn't slow down, didn't give her a break.
"Jordan—"
"Again."
"I can't—"
"You can."
She came a second time. Harder. Her eyes rolled back and her mouth hung open and he watched it happen—watched her fall apart underneath him—and that was what did it.
"Fuck—"
He pulled out.
It was fast, jerky, almost too late. He grabbed his cock and pumped once, twice, and then he was coming—shooting thick ropes of white across her stomach and her tits and her neck.
She gasped when the first one hit.
He groaned when the last one did.
They stayed like that for a moment. Panting. Sticky. His hand holding his softening cock, her body painted in his come.
Then she laughed.
"Jesus," she said.
"I know."
"We're going to have to repaint the floor."
He looked down. The floor was new. The floor was pine. The floor was stained.
"Worth it," he said.
She laughed again. Reached up. Grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down for a kiss.
---
They showered. Dressed. Ate breakfast standing at the counter—eggs and toast and coffee from the machine they'd finally learned to use.
The email sat open on Jordan's phone. Sports Writer Position. Green Bay Press-Gazette. Start date: two weeks from Monday.
He kept looking at it. Like it might disappear if he didn't.
"You should respond," Maria said.
"I know."
"Before they change their minds."
"They won't change their minds."
"You don't know that."
"I know." He looked at her. "They'd be stupid to change their minds."
"Damn right."
She reached over. Took his hand. Squeezed.
"We did it," she said.
"What?"
"Everything. The house. The job. The—" She gestured vaguely at the room around them. "This."
"We're not done."
"We're close."
He thought about it. The floors still creaked. The windows still leaked. The furnace still rattled.
"Close enough," he said.
---
The celebration started at noon.
It involved the neighbor's dog, a bottle of champagne that Ernie had given them as a housewarming present, and a walk around the block that turned into a longer walk than planned.
Maria wore a Packers shirt. Jordan wore a Packers hat. They looked like idiots. They didn't care.
They passed the house of the dog walker from three months ago. She waved. Maria waved back.
They passed the gas station. Kwik Trip. Jordan flipped it off. Maria laughed.
They passed a bar called The Hungry Packer. Jordan stopped. Stared at it.
"We've been here three months and I didn't know this existed."
"We don't go out much."
"We should go out more."
"We should go in."
He looked at her. She looked at him.
"Now?"
"Now."
They went in.
---
The Hungry Packer was exactly what it sounded like.
Dark wood. Packers memorabilia on every wall. A bartender named Stan who looked like he'd been there since the Lombardi era.
"New faces," Stan said.
"We just moved in," Maria said. "Two blocks down."
"New neighbors." He nodded. "What can I get you?"
"Whatever's on tap."
The beer was cold. The place was loud. Somewhere in the back, someone was arguing about a play call from a game that happened twenty years ago.
Jordan felt something settle into place.
This was it. This was home. Not the house—the house was just walls and a roof. This was the thing he'd been looking for without knowing he was looking for it.
"Happy?" Maria said.
"Yeah." He looked at her. "You?"
She took a sip of her beer. Wiped the foam off her lip.
"I'm not unhappy," she said.
"That's the best you're gonna give me?"
"Wouldn't want you to get comfortable."
He laughed. Leaned over. Kissed her on the cheek.
"Too late," he said.
---
They walked home in the dark.
The street was quiet. The stars were out. Maria was a little drunk and leaning on him more than she needed to.
"The job starts in two weeks," she said.
"Yeah."
"Are you nervous?"
"No."
"Liar."
"Fine. A little."
She squeezed his arm.
"You'll be good at it. You're good at talking about football. You've been doing it since I met you. Since before I met you. It's literally the only thing you ever talked about for the first three months of our friendship."
"Not the only thing."
"Okay. Football and beer and why the Vikings are overrated."
"That's just truth."
She snorted. They kept walking.
"The house is done," she said.
"Not done."
"Done enough."
He thought about the floors. The windows. The furnace.
"Yeah," he said. "Done enough."
They reached the driveway. The house was dark. The maple tree—dormant for the winter—stood in the front yard like a skeleton.
"You know what I've been thinking about?" Maria said.
"What?"
"The first game. That first Sunday. When you opened the door in that cheesehead and I thought you were the biggest dork I'd ever seen."
"You've mentioned it."
"I stayed anyway."
"I know."
She turned. Faced him. The moonlight caught her eyes, her hair, her face.
"I'll always stay," she said.
He didn't say anything. Just kissed her.
The house waited for them. The Packers pennant was visible through the window. The yellow wall glowed in the dark.
Home.
They went inside.