“Same thing.”
“No,” he says, voice rougher now. “It’s not. It’s not even code for fixing your life. All it is code for is ‘I want a hot shower, and I bet you do, too.’”
I clench my fists, like the act of digging my nails into my palms will keep me from clawing his eyes out. He turns back and goes to work, deliberate, unbothered.
He pulls a part free, examines it, and then tosses it into the toolbox with a clatter.
“If you’re going to watch me work, at least hand me that flathead,” he says.
I freeze for half a second. It’s not a request, it’s a command. My first instinct is to ignore it, but my body betrays me. I reach for the screwdriver and crouch down, knees pressed together so the sheet won’t slip. I pass him the tool, but our hands touch, just barely — enough to register heat and friction and the memory of last night.
He doesn’t let go right away. He holds it, holds me, just long enough that I have to look at him. His eyes are dark and steady and very, very close. My heart jumps, but my face doesn’t move.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, and my voice turns traitor on the last syllable, going soft. “I can take care of myself.”
He lets the words settle. Then he lets go and turns back to the heater, all business again.
“I know you can,” he says, too quietly.
The silence stretches. I watch him work, this man who could break me or save me, who does both without ever blinking. I try to think of something to say that isn’t a confession or a curse.
He breaks first. “You ever wonder why you get so mad when someone helps you?” he asks, not looking back.
My breath catches. The question lands somewhere I don’t let people look. I don’t answer.
He twists the screwdriver, then pauses. “Most people like it.”
“I’m not most people,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, and this time his smile is real, not a weapon. “I figured that out.”
I want to leave, to hide in my room, but I stay. I can’t stop watching him.
He pulls the panel back into place and stands, taller than I remember, close enough to crowd the air between us. He wipes his hands on his jeans and gives me an appraising look.
“You want to test it out?” he asks. “Make sure I didn’t fuck it up worse?”
He means the shower. He means my body, my privacy, my control. My mouth goes dry.
I shake my head. “I’ll handle it.” Then, after an anxious swallow, I add, “Why are you doing this?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He works for a beat, jaw set, and then says, “Because you’re stubborn.”
“Wow. Thank you.”
“And because I want a hot shower too,” he adds, dry.
“Liar.”
He glances back at me, smirk returning. “You always this mouthy?”
I narrow my eyes. “You always this annoying?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“God,” I mutter, standing. “You’re a stubborn, stupid, kind asshole.”
That gets his full attention. He looms over me, eyes lit with something I’ve never seen before, and his voice drops. “Kind, huh?”
