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Fine. Plumbing was clearly advanced level. I’d start smaller.

The cabinet door that hung crooked seemed more my speed. It just needed to be tightened, right? A few turns of a screwdriver and boom, functional kitchen. I grabbed the handle to examine the hinges.

The entire door came off in my hands.

I stood there, holding a cabinet door that had apparently been attached by hope and old paint, wondering if it was too early to start drinking. The sun suggested yes. My life suggested who cares about socially acceptable drinking times when you’re holding pieces of your house.

The yard, then. Surely I could handle grass. It was just cutting plants shorter. Humanity had been doing it for centuries. I’d bought a secondhand mower from a guy named Dale who’d assured me it “runs great, just needs a little love.”

Dale was a liar.

The mower started on the fifteenth pull, ran for exactly thirty seconds, then died with the mechanical equivalent of a middle finger.

Fuck.

By noon, I was standing in my half-mowed yard, soaking wet from the now spraying-again faucet, holding a detached cabinet door, when a tiny voice piped up from the fence.

“My dad can fix that.”

Through the open front door, I could see Noa standing at the property line, today’s outfit consisting of a princess dress over cargo shorts, paired with what appeared to be combat boots. She was eating a popsicle despite it being barely seventy degrees, because five-year-olds operated by their own logic.

“He fixes everything,” she continued, gesturing with her popsicle for emphasis. “Except pancakes. He only makes pancakes. We eat a lot of pancakes. Sometimes for dinner. Once for Thanksgiving but that was weird.”

“Noa.”

Tyson appeared behind his daughter, and my traitorous brain immediately cataloged how good he looked in worn jeans and a black henley that did things to his big, broad shoulders. His hair was messier today, suggesting he’d been running his hands through it more, and I absolutely did not wonder what it would feel like to do that myself.

“Sorry,” he said, one hand landing on Noa’s head. “We’re still working on the concept of boundaries.”

“But Dad, look.” Noa pointed at me with her rapidly melting popsicle. “She needs help. And you always say we should help neighbors. She’s our neighbor. So we should help.”

Five-year-old logic was hard to argue with.

Tyson’s gaze swept over my situation, taking in the water, the cabinet door, the half-mowed yard that looked like I’d given up on life midway through. Which, to be fair, I had.

“Need a hand?” The question was casual, but there was amusement in his eyes that made me want to throw the cabinet door at him.

“I’m fine,” I lied, water still dripping from my hair. “Just learning the house’s quirks.”

“The quirk where cabinets aren’t attached?”

“It’s vintage.”

“The quirk where the faucet doubles as a shower?”

“Water feature. Very feng shui.”

His mouth twitched. “The quirk where your mower dies every…” The mower chose that moment to give one last pathetic sputter, proving his point. “Thirty seconds?”

Noa giggled. “You’re not very good at fixing things.”

“Noa.”

“What? It’s true. Remember when you said we should always tell the truth? She’s bad at it, Dad.”

Kill me. Kill me now. Let the earth open up and swallow me whole so I didn’t have to stand here being judged by a kindergartener while her unreasonably attractive father tried not to laugh.

“I could take a look,” he offered. “The faucet, at least. Before you flood the place.”