It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I catch myself waiting for her cues, for the way she notices every tiny gain I don’t even see.
By Friday evening, Sophie’s buzzing around the living room, stuffing an overnight bag with pajamas and way too many snacks. Erin pulls up out front, and Sophie’s gone in a flash—barely a wave before she disappears out the door.
The house feels too still without her. I flip on the TV, settle in for Game 2. It’s a grind, and we lose it late—one of those one-goal heartbreakers that leave your jaw clenched long after the horn.
When the Wranglers mob their goalie at center ice and my guys skate off with their heads down, it only twists the knife deeper.
The silence after the broadcast cuts out is brutal. I rinse the dishes, pace the kitchen, flip the TV back on and off. Nothing takes the edge off.
My phone rings. Charlotte’s name lights the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, voice rough.
A beat of silence, then her breath catches like she’s debating hanging up. “Sorry—this is probably not what you expected on a Friday night, but… my kitchen faucet just decided to explode. I shut off the valve, but it’s still spraying everywhere. I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.”
I rub a hand over my jaw, already reaching for my keys. “Text me your address.”
There’s another pause, this one smaller. “Really? Thanks. I didn’t know who else to call with David still on the road.”
“I’m coming. Can’t let my physical therapist drown in her own kitchen.”
Her laugh is shaky but real. “Thanks, Declan. Seriously.”
The call clicks off, leaving the house even quieter. I stare at the phone for a long beat before shoving it in my pocket and heading for the door.
Sliding into the driver’s seat is awkward as hell with the brace. I shove the seat back a notch so it doesn’t catch under the dash, then once I’m in, it’s fine.
Her duplex is ten minutes away, but my pulse stays tight the whole drive, like I’m heading into overtime instead of a plumbing disaster.
As soon as I knock, Charlotte opens it, barefoot, blonde hair twisted up, a towel slung over one shoulder. There’s a wet patch on her T-shirt, darker blue across her stomach. She waves me in, exasperated.
“Kitchen’s this way. I swear it attacked me.”
She isn’t kidding. The faucet’s coughing up water, pooling fast across the counter. She’s already laid out some tools and a flashlight. I grab a wrench and lower myself by the cabinet, nodding for her to bring the flashlight closer.
She darts forward with another towel as I balance on my good knee, keeping the braced one stretched awkwardly out. Even then, it barks a protest, heat crawling down the joint. I grit my teeth and ignore it.
The last thing I’m going to do is admit I can’t handle a damn faucet.
“Hold the flashlight steady,” I tell her.
“Yes, Captain,” she says wryly, her voice teasing. The beam wobbles as she shifts closer, shoulder brushing mine in the cramped space. I catch the familiar scent of her shampoo, and it makes concentrating harder.
“Here,” I grunt, twisting the wrench tight. The spray slows, sputters, then finally dies. I sit back, wiping a sleeve across my forehead. “Not bad for an amateur plumber.”
Charlotte lets out a long breath, half relief, half laugh. “You just saved me from turning my kitchen into a swimming pool. I owe you.”
Her smile is wide, relief written all over her face. For a second I just look at her—closer than we should be, the air thicker thanit has any right to be. She notices, shifts her weight, but doesn’t move away.
“Guess I should get you a drink,” she says lightly, though her voice is softer now.
Something coils low in my chest. “Guess you should.”
Charlotte opens the fridge and comes back with two beers, twisting the caps off like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She hands me one.
“Payment,” she says.
I huff out something close to a laugh, and she gestures toward the couch. I sink into the cushions, leg stretched out, the muscles in my left knee still humming from crouching under her sink. She drops down casually beside me, folding one leg under herself. The lamp throws a soft glow over her, catching on the loose strands of hair that have slipped free.
