When she emerges, my breath catches in my throat. My shirt hangs to her mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one shoulderto reveal smooth brown skin. The sweatpants are rolled at the ankles and cinched tight at the waist, and still they barely stay on her hips. Her wet clothes are bundled in her arms, her hair twisted up in the towel.
“Ready?” she asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.
I grunt and grab my toolbox, leading the way back downstairs. The silence between us feels charged, different. As if seeing each other in this context—me coming to her rescue, her in my clothes—has shifted something fundamental.
Back in her kitchen, the water has stopped flowing, but the damage is evident. Water covers the floor in shallow pools, seeping into baseboards and under appliances. Her supplies—flour, sugar, chocolate—sit on high shelves, untouched by the flood, but the cabinets below are soaked.
“It’s a mess,” she says quietly beside me.
“Yes,” I agree, because there’s no point in lying. “But fixable.”
I wade back to the sink and kneel, opening the cabinet to reveal the full extent of the damage. Water has transformed the particleboard into a soggy mess, and the copper pipe has split along a seam, the metal curled outward like petals on a deadly flower. I run my fingers along the break, assessing the damage while trying to ignore the heat of Lena’s gaze on my back. Her presence is a physical thing, pressing against my skin, making the confined space of the kitchen feel even smaller. I take a deep breath and reach for my tools, focusing on the problem at hand rather than the woman wearing my clothes, smelling of my soap, standing close enough that I can hear every anxious shift of her weight.
“How bad is it?” she asks, kneeling beside me, peering into the cabinet.
Her proximity makes my skin prickle. My shirt hangs loose on her frame, the collar dipping to reveal the delicate curve of her collarbone. I force my eyes back to the pipe.
“Corroded. Should have been replaced years ago.” I run my thumb over the split metal. “Water pressure finally won.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes.” I pull out a pipe cutter from my toolbox. “I need to cut out the damaged section and replace it. Do you have any buckets for the remaining water?”
She scrambles to her feet. “Yes! And mops. And towels. I’ll get everything.”
She bustles away, and I allow myself one deep exhale before returning to the task. The pipe is worse than I initially thought—not just the obvious split, but signs of corrosion extending further along. This isn’t a recent development. This is neglect. My neglect.
I should have checked all the plumbing when she moved in. Should have replaced these old pipes before they had a chance to fail. Instead, I was too busy pretending she didn’t affect me, too focused on maintaining distance, to do my actual job as her landlord.
By the time Lena returns with an armful of cleaning supplies, I’ve already cut away the damaged section of pipe and am measuring for the replacement.
“I brought everything I could find,” she says, dumping towels, mops, and buckets onto the wet floor. “What do you need?”
“Space,” I grunt, immediately regretting how harsh it sounds. “Just... I need to focus.”
“Right.” She takes a step back, hugging herself. “Sorry.”
Guilt twists in my gut. “You can start mopping up, if you want. But keep clear of the cabinet until I’m done.”
She nods, grabbing a mop and attacking the standing water with surprising vigor. I try to concentrate on fitting the new section of pipe from the supplies in my toolbox, but I’m acutely aware of her movements—the determined set of her jaw, the waymy shirt slides off one shoulder as she works, the soft huffs of exertion that escape her lips.
It’s distracting. She’s distracting. And yet, watching her fight against the flood with the same fierce determination she applies to her baking makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“The previous tenants did a number on this place,” I say, fitting the new pipe section into place. “Cheap materials, shortcuts. I should have caught it.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says, pausing in her mopping to look at me.
“It is.” I tighten a coupling with more force than necessary. “I’m the landlord. Building maintenance is my responsibility.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and when I glance up, I find her studying me, head tilted. “You know, for someone who acts like I’m a massive inconvenience, you take this landlord thing pretty seriously.”
I grunt, focusing on the pipe rather than her perceptive gaze. “It’s my job.”
“There are plenty of landlords who wouldn’t show up for days, much less come running at the first sound of trouble.”
“Those landlords are shit at their jobs.”
She laughs, the sound bright in the disaster zone of her kitchen. “Fair enough. Still, thanks for coming so quickly. And for the clothes. And for not telling me ‘I told you so’ about the plumbing being a disaster waiting to happen.”
