Inside, I drop the mail on the table with surprising force—a stack of bills, 1 eviction notice from Lipnicky’s office that I cannot stop filing soon enough, and something from the bank. Reality’s waiting on the table too, precise and merciless.
At the kitchen window, I peer out. He’s rolling up the towel, the morning ritual apparently concluded. He looks… content. Centered. Mastery in motion.
I want to hate him—but I don’t.
I want to hate myself—for feeling this way—but I can’t find the strength.
Instead, I stand there, the early sun warming my cheeks—and my heart.
Because some hells come dressed in dawn and perfect bodies, and you’re not sure what kind of salvation that might be.
I stand in the yard, wrench clutched like it’s a lifeline—the hose connector assembled, but our hands haven’t let go. The morning air hums with possibility and something more jarring—our hearts racing in tandem.
He shifts the coil of the hose under one arm, toolbox in the other, then sets both down beside me. I clear my throat, voice uneven. “Thanks for helping.”
He looks at me, eyes steady and intense, as though he’s reading the energy swirling between us. “Of course.”
The sun drips golden across his skin, and I can’t look away. His breathing is slow, measured, but I sense the same fast pulse underneath. We both feel it keeping time.
I exhale, focusing on the task—not this moment. I snap the lid on the toolbox and hold up the wrench. “Need help?”
He steps forward, and as he reaches to take it, our hands brush—electric, igniting a synchronous jolt that sets every nerve on fire. Time stretches.
He looks at our linked fingers, then up at my face, expression soft and sincere. “Thank you.”
I swallow. The world narrows to this: sunshine, hose, hands, him.
I pull back and grasp the wrench. “Let’s finish it,” I murmur, voice barely more than a breath.
He nods, watching me tighten the connector with slow precision. The scent of fresh-cut grass drifts around us; the sound of a distant lawnmower blurs into background white noise. We work in tandem—two humans bridging more than a hose.
Our tools clink. He helps guide the wrench. His hand presses over mine—it’s not forceful, but firm. Protective. Familiar in ways I’m still afraid to admit.
I tighten the final screw. Water pressure returns with a hiss and flow. Liquid arcs into the lawn, droplets catching light, dancing like living sparks.
He pulls back, breathing shallow. His gaze roams the spray and then returns to me, golden eyes shimmering. “Successful.”
I meet his gaze. My pulse in my throat. “Yes.”
Silence settles, but the air vibrates—a live wire buzzing just beneath the skin.
I hold out the wrench. He takes it, but our fingers graze again. I don’t pull away.
Instead, I say, voice soft: “You’re going to drive me crazy.”
His eyes widen—just for a second—as though he’s calculating. Then he strips away whatever formal mask he wore and answers, quietly serious:
“I have a high-speed vehicle if that helps.”
The tension fractures under that absurdity, and I laugh—bright, unexpected, releasing weeks of tension in one burst.
He chuckles, deeper, a rumbling warmth. “I mean—warp core powerful—but parallel, if you’d like.”
I shake my head, still grinning. “Let’s just stick to hoses today.”
He props the wrench against his shoulder. “Agreed.”
I step backward, exhaling. The moment hangs heavy between us—the storm of attraction tempered by practicality, sincerity coated in humor.
