Two minutes later, I’m in her house, shoes splashing against a thin sheet of water spreading across the tile. The pipe under her sink is spraying like a busted fire hydrant, mist catching the overhead light.
“Jesus, Lu.” I drop to my knees, yanking the cabinet open. “Where’s your shutoff?”
“Outside—the side of the house, I think?”
I’m already moving. Out the back and down the wall, I find the valve and crank it shut until the gushing sound inside slows, then stops altogether. When I come back in, she’s standing barefoot in the middle of the wet kitchen, arms still clutched tight over her chest, shivering.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I tell her. “You’ll need a plumber for the pipe, maybe a drying crew with fans for the floor. Should be fine to come back in a few days, tops.”
Her eyes dart to mine. “I—I can still stay here. It’s not—”
“No.” The word comes out harder than I intend. I soften it. “You don’t have water, and you can’t stay in a damp house. Mold’ll eat the walls before you get your lesson plans graded. Just stay at mine.”
Her mouth opens, protests lined up, but Dusty chooses that moment to shove his head into her side. She looks down, fingers sinking into his fur, and something in her shoulders eases.
I grab a towel off her counter, hand it to her, then strip off my hoodie. “You’re soaked. Here, have this.”
She hesitates, then pulls it over her head. It swallows her whole, and she looks at me through the gap in the hood with uncertainty.
“It’s only for a few days,” I say again, gentler this time. “Until the repairs are handled.”
She bites her lip, still dripping onto the hardwood. “I don’t want to—”
“Lulu.” I cut her a look. “You’re not sleeping in a damp house. End of story.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s not used to losing arguments. “You’re bossy.”
“Efficient.”
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth curls, and she trudges upstairs to grab a bag.
By the time we cross back to my place, Dusty’s trotting at her heels as if he’s been waiting for her all night. She stands in my kitchen, water slowly sluicing down her bare legs, wrapped in my hoodie.
I toss her another dry towel. “Sit.”
She perches on one of the stools, obedient for once, tugging the towel around her shoulders and rubbing at her hair. The hoodie sleeves dangle past her fingers, clearly about ten sizes too big for her.
I grab an extra blanket from the closet and nod toward the hallway as I hand it to her. “Guest room’s made up. Fresh sheets, extra pillows. This is an extra blanket, if you need. Room’s yours until the repairs are done.”
Her brows lift. “You… have a made-up guest room?”
I snort. “I’m not an animal.”
She bites her lip, fighting a smile. “Efficient,” she murmurs.
“Exactly.”
Dusty follows her down the hall and immediately leaps onto the bed, burrowing into the comforter. Lulu bends over him, laughter spilling out as he wriggles against her side, a sound that stretches warm through the length of the hallway.
“Traitor,” I mutter, but my chest loosens even further than it did earlier.
She looks up, still smiling faintly, and strokes Dusty’s head. “Face it, Miller. I’ve stolen your dog.”
I arch a brow. “You can keep him for the night, so long as you don’t start snoring louder than he does.”
Her laugh bubbles out, and for a beat, neither of us moves. Then I clear my throat, the air shifting back toward practical.
“If you need anything, I’m right across the hall. My stuff’s your stuff. Help yourself.”
