I need water. Or sleep. Or a punch to the head, frankly.
I head for her bathroom because I need to scrub away the sick sensations that crawl across my skin every time I think about June.
I turn the shower on.
The pipes rattle and shudder, and then the nozzle spits a jet of ice-water strong enough to startle me. I let it run, half-expecting the heater to catch, to warm up, but nothing changes.
I shove my hand under the stream anyway and flinch. “Jesus.”
No steam. No warmth. Just a constant, punishing rush of ice.
I twist the handle hotter.
Nothing.
The cold stays.
I stare at the showerhead like it personally insulted me, then my eyes drift to the cheap shampoo bottle, the towel hung just-so, the little details of a life built on stubborn survival.
And suddenly it hits me.
She’s been living like this since the night she asked to use my shower.
Shift after shift, with school on top of it. Every time coming home sore and exhausted and still too damn proud to ask anyone for help.
A laugh tries to scrape out of my throat, but it dies halfway. It isn’t funny.
It’s Molly. Every bit of this rusted, frigid plumbing mess is exactly her. She’d rather freeze than owe someone.
Something in my chest pulls tight as I’m overtaken by an ugly, unwanted urge.I have to take care of her.Fix it. Make it easier. Give her one goddamn comfort that doesn’t come with a price tag. It won’t make things right between us for what I’m going to do to her, but at least it’ll give both of us a little bit of ease before our worlds fall apart.
And she deserves it. She deserves so much more good than life has given her.
Then I clamp down hard on the feeling because caring is a liability, and liabilities get you killed. Or worse — they get June killed.
I shut the shower off, jaw set.
“Fine,” I mutter to myself. “I’m not doing this just for her. I want a hot shower too.”
It’s a lie, and it isn’t.
I can't fix what's coming. I can fix this. It isn't enough, but I’ll do it anyway.
I move fast.
Back into the hall. Across to my apartment. In and out like I’ve done this a thousand times; I grab my toolbox from the closet, my wrench set, a flashlight, and everything else I’ll need.
I’m back in Molly’s place in under a minute.
The water heater closet is off her kitchen, tucked behind a flimsy panel like the building itself is embarrassed by it. I pop the latch, crouch down, and get to work.
The thing is ancient. There is mineral buildup everywhere, so much so that this damn thing is half rock. With a lot of time, effort, and a bit of luck, I find the culprit: a connection that looks like it’s been held together by spite and wishful thinking.
I’m elbow-deep in it when I hear the soft pad of footsteps behind me, followed by a beat of silence.
Then Molly’s voice slices through the room, sharp with sleep and suspicion and that steel she wears like perfume. I look up to see her standing there, arms crossed, eyes as sharp as broken glass.
“What the hell are you doing?”
