And his eyes. Those blue eyes, sharp and alert despite the hour, scanning over me quickly, checking for injuries.
Then his scent hits me.
Alpha scent thick with concern and something that makes my newly awakened omega sit up and takeveryclose notice.
My mouth goes dry.
His gaze travels down my body. The damp sweatshirt. The soaking wet pajama pants clinging to my legs. My bare feet.
Then back up to my face.
His throat bobs as he swallows.
His nostrils flare slightly, and I know he can smell me.
"Hi," I manage.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is still rough from sleep, and why is that so attractive? Why is everything about him so attractive? This is unfair. This is a plumbing emergency. I should not be having feelings about his voice.
"Thanks for coming. I'm sorry. I know it's stupid early and you probably have actual work in a few hours and I'm a disaster and..."
"Thanks for calling," he interrupts, and his eyes haven't left my face. "Where's the damage?"
"Upstairs. Second door on the right. It's bad, Carlos. It's really bad. My bedroom looks like Atlantis decided to stage a hostile takeover."
"Let's go see."
I lead him up the stairs, hyperaware of him behind me. His footsteps heavy. His breathing steady. The way his scent gets stronger as we climb, mixing our scents together.
I push open my bedroom door.
"Oh," he says quietly. "Yeah. That's bad."
He wades into the room, water sloshing around his boots, and I watch him work. Watch him crouch down by the bathroom door, muscles shifting under his henley in ways that make me need to sit down. Watch him pull out a flashlight and examine the burst pipe with professional efficiency.
His forearms flex as he works. His hands, rough and capable, handle the tools with easy confidence. His shoulders are broad enough to block out half the bathroom doorway when he leans in to get a better look.
I am havingthoughts. Inappropriate thoughts. Thoughts involving those hands and what else they might be good at.
Stop it,I tell myself firmly.Plumbing crisis. Focus on the plumbing crisis.
"Corrosion," he mutters, half to himself. "Original piping. 1950s copper. One cold snap and..." He stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans, which should not be as attractive as it is. "I can patch this tonight. Get your water running again. But Jess, the whole system needs to be replaced. If one pipe went, others will follow."
"How long?"
"Weeks. Maybe a month. Depends on what else I find when I open up the walls." He looks around the room, taking in the floating suitcase, the sodden carpet, the spreading ceiling stain. "And you can't stay here while it's being done."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Can't stay here. In my childhood home. In the only place that feels safe. In the house where Dad's clothes still hang in the closet and Mom's brownies are still in the kitchen.
"Where am I supposed to go?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
Carlos turns to face me fully. His expression shifts. Softens.
"The packhouse has a guest room," he says quietly. "You could stay there. While I do the repairs. It would be easier than trying to live around construction. Safer."
The packhouse.
