I burst through the door without knocking, the bell above it jangling violently. The smell hits me immediately—yeast and sugar, yes, but underneath it all, the mineral scent of water flooding where it shouldn’t be.
“Lena?”
“Back here!”
I follow her voice through the empty front of the shop to the kitchen, where I stop dead in my tracks. Water gushes from beneath the sink like a demented fountain, spraying in violent arcs across her newly-leveled counter. The floor is already covered in an inch of water that sloshes around my hooves as I enter. And in the middle of it all stands Lena, wielding a wrench in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other, looking like a drowned rat and twice as furious.
Her hair is plastered to her cheeks, her bakery whites now translucent and clinging to every curve of her body. My mouth goes dry despite the deluge surrounding us.
“Don’t just stand there!” Lena shouts, waving the wrench like it’s a magic wand that might stop the fountain of water spraying from beneath her sink. “Help me or get out of the way!” Her eyes are wild, panic and frustration warring on her face as she tries to stem the tide with nothing but determination and inadequate tools. The sight of her—drenched, furious, and still somehow beautiful—makes something in my chest tighten uncomfortably. I shake it off and wade through the rising water toward her, already calculating what I’ll need to fix this disaster.
“Give me that,” I grunt, plucking the wrench from her fingers. Our skin brushes, hers cold and wet, mine burning in comparison. “What happened?”
“What does it look like? The pipe exploded!” She’s shouting over the hiss and spray of water. Her hair is plastered to her face in dark tendrils, and there’s flour on her cheek turned to paste by the water. “I was just washing dishes and then—boom! Niagara Falls in my kitchen!”
I drop to my knees in the water, ignoring how it soaks through my jeans. The cabinet beneath the sink is already a lost cause, the particleboard swelling and warping. I reach in and feelalong the pipe, locating the burst section by touch alone. Cold water rushes over my forearm, soaking my sleeve to the elbow.
“I need to shut off the water main,” I tell her, pulling back. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know!” Her hands fly up, sending droplets flying from her fingertips. “Do I look like I know where the water main is? I make pastries, Thorne. Pastries!”
Despite the urgency, I feel my mouth twitch. “Calm down. It’ll be in the utility room.”
“Which is where, exactly?” She’s following me now, sloshing through the water, leaving wet footprints on the slightly drier floor of the front shop.
“Back corner, probably. Small door. Might look like a closet.”
We find it tucked behind a shelf of supplies, and I wrench it open, revealing a tangle of pipes and valves. I locate the main immediately and twist it shut with a grunt of effort. The rushing sound from the kitchen dies down, leaving only the gentle splash of standing water.
“Oh, thank God,” Lena breathes, sagging against the doorframe. “I thought I was going to drown in my own bakery. What a stupid way to die.”
“You weren’t going to drown,” I say, wiping my wet hands on my already-soaked jeans. “Flood, maybe. Destroy all your equipment, definitely.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting? Because you suck at it.” She pushes wet hair from her face, and I notice her hands are shaking slightly. Not just angry, then. Scared.
Something protective stirs in my chest. “It’s fixable. I’ll need tools. Mine are upstairs.”
“I’ll come with you,” she says immediately, then seems to realize how it sounds. “I mean—to help carry things. And to get dry clothes. And to not be alone in my flooded kitchen having a meltdown.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, already moving toward the door. She follows me like a drenched shadow, her shoes making sad squelching sounds against the floor. We walk in silence across the courtyard and up the stairs to my apartment. I’m hyperaware of her behind me, of the water dripping from both of us, marking our path like breadcrumbs.
My apartment door swings open with a creak. I’m suddenly, painfully conscious of my space—the half-finished furniture projects scattered about, the sparse decor, the lingering scent of sawdust and coffee. It’s not meant for visitors. It’s not meant for her.
“Wait here,” I say, pointing to the entryway. “I’ll get towels.”
She nods, arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her. It’s disconcerting. Like seeing a bird with clipped wings.
I return with towels and thrust one at her, careful not to touch her fingers again. “Dry off. I’ll get my tools.”
While she mops at her face and hair, I grab my toolbox from the workshop and find a spare t-shirt—one that will swallow her whole, but at least it’s dry. I hesitate, then grab a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist as well.
“Here,” I say, pushing the clothes into her hands. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to change.”
She blinks at the bundle, then up at me, surprise softening her features. “Thanks.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. “Can’t have you catching pneumonia and blaming me for it.”
“God forbid I add to your list of tenant grievances,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. She disappears into the bathroom, and I change quickly in my bedroom, swapping my wet clothes for dry ones.
