More bubbles.
Holley:
It’s been busy. And cold. And I’ve been working extra shifts because I want to fix the hot water heater in the house.
I blink.
Working extra shifts to fix her own damn hot water heater.
My pulse kicks.
Not because she’s struggling—though that hits me too hard—but because she’s handling her shit head-on. No waiting for someone to save her. No standing around freezing.
Just grit and independence.
And god help me, that’s a turn-on like nothing else.
Tony:
You working yourself into the ground?
Holley:
Maybe a little.
Tony:
Why am I not surprised.
A beat.
Then:
Holley:
I didn’t think you’d want an update.
Tony:
I wouldn’t have texted if I didn’t.
Silence. Then one more message:
Holley:
I’m glad you did.
Those words hit deeper than they should.
I sit back on the garage floor, leaning against the lift, letting the warmth of that settle into the spaces she carved open without meaning to.
“Yeah,” I mutter to myself. “Me too.”
The heater hums.
The radio plays something slow.
Work waits for me on the bench.
