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***
The clamor of the community center’s renovation echoed through the high-ceilinged room, each hammer stroke and paintbrush swishing a testament to our determination. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I smeared a streak of cerulean across the daycare wall, a burst of color to brighten the children’s days.
A shrill ring cut through the cacophony, my cell phone vibrating against the windowsill. I pressed the device between my ear and shoulder, unwilling to stop my work.
“Mila, it’s Cassius.”
My hand paused mid-stroke. “Cassius Portman,” I murmured, ensuring none of the volunteers caught wind of my surprise caller.
“I thought perhaps we could go out,” he said, his voice as smooth as the silk glove he’d returned to me.
I pressed my lips into a thin line, dipping my brush back into the paint. “That’s not going to happen,” I said, my tone curt over the line. “I’m up to my elbows in paint and commitment here.”
There was a pause on his end. I could almost picture him, that perfectly tailored suit of his, a world away from my splattered overalls.
“If you truly want to discuss something,” I continued, eyes on the half-finished mural before me, “you’re welcome to come down here. But don’t expect small talk or distractions. You better be ready to pick up a brush or hammer.”
***
A glob of cerulean splashed against my cheek, the cold sensation drawing a startled laugh from my lips. I wiped at the paint with the back of my hand, my gaze drifting upward. Through the prism of colors splattered across the plastic sheeting that protected the floor, I saw Cassius standing in the doorway. The usually stoic lines of his face eased into something gentler, his eyes reflecting the vibrancy that surrounded him.
“What happened here?” he asked, a half-smile playing on his lips as he stepped into the room, dodging a wayward streak of yellow.
“Reviving a little hope,” I replied, dipping my brush into a palette of sunset hues.
Cass’s gaze swept over Melody’s murals—bold lines and shapes telling stories of community and connection. His suit jacket found its way over the back of a chair, and he rolled up his sleeves with purpose.
“Hand me a brush,” he said, and it wasn’t a command but an offering.
I handed him one, eyebrows raised in surprise. His fingers brushed mine, sending an unintended shiver down my spine. With no trace of hesitation, Cass dipped the brush into a pot of emerald green and approached the wall. Each stroke was deliberate and sure; it was as if he were peeling back layers of his meticulously constructed persona with every swipe.
“You’re not half bad at this,” I admitted, watching as he filled in a patch of sky with careful attention.
“I’ve had practice,” Cass replied, pausing to assess his work. “Not with paint but… building things.”
I watched him—a man who could command millions with a word—humbled by the task of brightening a small corner of the world. Our brushes moved in tandem; mine danced along the outlines Melody sketched while his filled in with bold color.
The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable but alive with unspoken words. Our arms brushed occasionally as we worked side by side; his presence felt both grounding and electric.
For those fleeting moments, we weren’t maid and billionaire, protester and developer—we were just Mila and Cassius, two people lost in the simple joy of creation. The chasm that divided our worlds seemed to narrow until it was nothing but a fine line—one that could be crossed with just a step or perhaps a reach across fresh paint.
***
A streak of cobalt smeared across the once barren wall, a sky for the mural’s vibrant cityscape. Melody’s brushstrokes brought life, a stark contrast to the drabness this room knew too well.
The kids would love it.
“You’re missing a spot up there,” Cass said, nodding towards the corner. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie gone. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have mistaken him for one of the volunteers that frequented the center.
I climbed the ladder, dipping my brush into the paint. “I see you’ve got an eye for detail.” My words carried a tinge of sarcasm, but he didn’t flinch.
“Always,” he replied. “In business and… apparently in daycare renovation.”
The room filled with laughter and chatter from the other volunteers. Cass picked up a roller and joined in, his movements awkward but earnest.
As I painted, I caught myself stealing glances at him. The way he interacted with the kids who came to inspect our work—it was off-script for a man I pegged as nothing but corporate steel.
“Mr. Portman,” a little girl tugged at his pants. “Can you paint with me?”
