That earned him a quick spark of a smile, there and gone, but real.
When they finished, she reached for his plate before he could move.
"I've got it," he said."You cooked."
"Let me rinse at least."She carried the dishes to the sink and turned the faucet.The handle squeaked and stuck halfway, refusing to budge until she forced it.
"That thing's got a hitch," he said."I've been meaning to fix it."
"Add it to your list."But the words came out softer than she'd meant them, her jaw tightening.
He heard the note underneath.Embarrassment.Like asking for a working faucet was too much to expect.Like pointing out imperfections made her a burden.
"What else sticks?"he asked.
She looked back at him."What?"
"In the house."He tipped his head toward the hall."Cabinet door.Faucet.You hesitated with the closet last night when you put your things away."
Color climbed her neck, spreading up toward her ears."It catches a little when you open it.It's fine.I didn't want to say anything."
"It's a door," he said."It should open without a fight.That's a pretty low bar."
"It feels ungrateful to complain."Her voice dropped."You've done so much already.I can live with a cranky faucet and a sticky door."
"You don't have to."He pushed back his chair and stood."Let me see what I can fix.It keeps my hands busy, and this is all stuff I've needed to do anyway.I've been here so little since I moved in, I'm not even aware of everything that needs work."
She watched him drag the toolbox from the corner onto the counter."You really can't sit still, can you?"
"Not while things are squeaking at me," he said.
He tightened the cabinet hinge first.Two screws, a minor adjustment, and the door closed clean on the first try.He moved to the hall closet next, adjusted the striker plate until the latch caught smoothly.The outlet cover in the living room had a stripped screw that he replaced.The towel bar in the bathroom wobbled; he set that straight with a few turns of the screwdriver.
Sabrina trailed behind him through each room, arms crossed over her chest, her bare feet quiet on the floor.She didn't say much, but she watched everything.Cataloging.Learning the house the way she seemed to learn everything, by observation and instinct.
"I didn't even notice that outlet cover," she said when he finished screwing it back into place."You walk into a room and see every weak point, don't you?"
"Part of the work," he said, gathering his tools."Firehouse.Garage.You learn to read the small stuff.What's solid, what isn't.Where things are going to fail before they actually do."
Her brows drew together."Does your brain ever shut off?"
"Sometimes."He straightened, tucked the screwdriver back into the box."Usually, when I'm exhausted.Or distracted."
She leaned one shoulder into the bathroom doorway, blocking his path without seeming to realize she'd done it."Is this distracting?"
He looked up from the toolbox.Her expression was open, curious, not teasing.Her hair had slipped a little from its knot, a loose strand brushing the line of her jaw.She looked soft in the morning light, softer than she probably wanted to be.Vulnerable in a way she was clearly fighting.
"Yeah," he said."In a good way."
Her throat moved as she swallowed."Then I'm glad I could help."
He closed the toolbox, let the sound of it fill the space between them."How are you holding up?Really."
She stared down at her bare feet for a second, at the chipped polish on her toenails that was one more thing she hadn't had time to think about, then looked back up at him."It changes every ten minutes.I feel like I should have one answer ready by now, something consistent I can give people when they ask.But I don't.It's all over the place."
"More than one answer's allowed," he said."You got hit hard.You're allowed to wobble."
She tipped her head, studying him with those tired, too-perceptive eyes."What do you do when something sticks in your head and won't shake loose?"
