SILAS POV
If someone had told me five years ago that I would willingly spend an entire afternoon painting lilac walls while being aggressively supervised by two little dictators, I would have laughed in their face.
If they had told me I would love every second of it, I would have probably broken their nose.
And yet.
“Dad, that car looks like a potato.”
“It does not look like a potato,” I argue, stepping back from the wall with the paintbrush still in my hand. “It looks like a sports car.”
Sebastian squints at it critically.
“It looks tired.”
Stephan nods with unnecessary solemnity. “It needs flames.”
“It’s lilac,” I remind them. “Flames will ruin the aesthetic.”
Stephan gasps like I have committed a moral crime. “Cars don’t care about aesthetic.”
Helena laughs from the balcony,
