“Most people would disagree.”
“Most people aren’t me.”
She leans her hip against the wall. Her hair’s a mess. She smells like sleep and burnt caff. There’s something in her eyes I haven’t seen since before this all started.
Fear.
The kind that doesn’t show up in screams—but in stillness.
I nod at the broken sink. “Pipe’s still leaking under the dish basin.”
She blinks, caught off-guard. “You noticed?”
“Could smell it. Mildew starting. Give me a few minutes and a wrench.”
She hesitates. Then hands me the toolkit.
No words.
Just… trust.
That’s new.
I fix the pipe.
Takes twenty minutes.
Mostly because she bought the cheap polymer tubing instead of reinforced lining, and I refuse to let that slide.
“Next time, don’t cut corners,” I mutter under the cabinet.
“You done judging my plumbing choices?”
“I’m never done judging your plumbing choices.”
She kicks me. Gently.
“Eat something,” she says.
And I do.
Not because I’m hungry.
But becausesheasked.
And that matters more than it should.
Every day,I tell myself I’ll ask.
Straight up. No games. No hesitation.
“Is he mine?”
But the second the words start to form, they burn.
Because what if the answer is no?
What if it’s yes?
