I stand there dripping, furious, naked, and exhausted enough to cry — which makes me even angrier because crying is what happens when you lose, and how the hell is it I could lose to my own shower?
I yank a towel off the rack and wrap it around myself, teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches.
Of course the hot water is out. Of course. It’s been limping along for months, ever since the last “upgrade.” The landlord’s solution to every maintenance request is to send a chain-smoking handyman who slaps duct tape over the problem and leaves a note that says “All Good!”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror — hair wild, limp, and wet, eyes bloodshot, shoulders slumped — and a laugh crawls up my throat, sharp and humorless.
I could heat a pot on the stove like it’s 1892. Wash myself with a rag and spite and pretend I’m some pioneer on the prairie.
Or…
I find myself looking at the wall that separates my unit from Evan’s.
Evan.
The new guy. My old almost-mistake from senior year, now relocated into the unit next to mine by the caprice of fate or some perverse cosmic joke. He’s been here just a short while and in that time has made “quiet, polite, and hot as sin” look like a competitive sport. The kind of guy who never raises his voice, never leaves his trash in the hallway, and never, ever fails to notice when you’re having a bad day. The kind of guy who’s built like he should be in a firefighter calendar and yet somehow seems oblivious to it. The guy who had the audacity to flirt with me in the building gym like I’m a normal woman who does normal things like go on dates and feel feelings and let men close.
I remember his confused face when I said I had homework.
Homework?
God.
My cheeks heat just thinking about it.
I don’t do “needing.” I don’t do “asking.” I don’t do “please.” I run my life the way I run my bar: tight control, sharp edges, no vulnerabilities.
But the alternative is going to bed with skin that feels like a napkin at a barbecue joint. I close my eyes and count to three, just like my therapist said. Nothing. No magic fix. No sudden flood of self-esteem or willingness to be seen. Just the raw animal need to be clean and warm for one goddamn hour before I have to start the whole cycle over again.
Then I wrap the towel tighter around my chest and march to the front door like I’m going to war.
The hallway is quiet, dimly lit by flickering bulbs that make everything look slightly haunted. My bare feet slap against the old carpet. I stop in front of Evan’s door and raise my fist.
Hesitate.
Because this is ridiculous.
Because I’m Molly “Molotov” Rogers and I do not —do not— show up half-naked at a man’s door asking for favors.
My fist knocks anyway.
Once.
Twice.
Footsteps. Then a pause, like he’s giving himself a pep talk before facing whatever fresh hell is standing on the other side of his door.
The lock turns with a clunk. The door opens, and there’s Evan: hair a little mussed, sleeves pushed up, bare feet, neutral but not unfriendly. The inside of his apartment is warm, so much warmer than mine that the difference almost pushes tears into my eyes.
He stares. Not for long — a polite second — but enough to take in the wet hair, the towel, the fact that I’m standing in his hallway in the middle of the night with nothing between me and him but a layer of cotton.
“Hey,” he says, voice rougher than it was in the gym. “Uh… you okay?”
I glare at him like he personally murdered my plumbing.
“My hot water’s out,” I say flatly. I don’t even try to sound casual. I am not casual about this. I am not casual about anything.
He blinks, then smiles. Not a leer, not a smirk, just a real, honest-to-god smile, like he’s glad to see me even if I’m wrapped up like a burrito in crisis.
