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Pride warred with practicality. Pride wanted to tell him I could handle my own problems. Practicality pointed out I was literally standing in a puddle while holding part of my kitchen.

“Fine,” I said, because drowning in my own kitchen seemed like a pathetic way to go. “Yes. Please.”

He was already moving, and I definitely didn’t notice the way his shoulders flexed as he lifted Noa instead of letting her walk around. She squealed with delight, combat boots kicking, princess dress flying. He set her down in my yard with casual strength that should be illegal in residential areas.

“Where’s your shut-off valve?”

“My what now?”

He blinked at me. “The… never mind. I’ll find it.”

He disappeared around the side of the house while Noa made herself comfortable on my porch steps, patting the spot beside her until I sat down. She smelled like artificial grape and sunshine, which shouldn’t have been comforting but somehow was.

“Do you have kids?” she asked, swinging her feet.

“No.”

“Do you have a dog?”

“No.”

“A cat?”

“No.”

“A hamster?”

“No pets.”

She digested this information with the seriousness of someone conducting a census. “Do you have a husband?”

My hands went still. The question was innocent, delivered with the same casual interest as the pet inventory, but it hit like a physical blow.

“Not anymore,” I managed.

Noa tilted her head, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes kids sometimes had. Then she reached over and patted my knee with one sticky hand.

“My dad doesn’t have a wife either,” she announced brightly. “She left us. It was really sad but he’s okay now. You’ll be okay too.”

The words were matter-of-fact, delivered with certainty. No platitudes about time healing or everything happening for a reason. Just simple truth from someone who’d lived it.

“Noa.” Tyson’s voice carried from under the sink where he’d started working. “Enough.”

But I was looking at this tiny person in combat boots and a princess dress who’d just casually revealed more about her life than most adults would share after years of friendship. She called the woman her dad’s wife, not her mom. There was a story there, probably not a happy one.

“Yeah,” I told her. “I think I will be.”

She beamed at me like I’d passed some kind of test. “Good. Oh, and if you get sad, we have ice cream. Dad lets me have extra when I’m sad. It helps.”

The faucet suddenly stopped spraying, leaving an almost startling silence. Tyson emerged from under the sink, one knee wet from the puddle, hair slightly mussed. He moved to the cabinet door I’d abandoned on the counter, examining the hinges with a focus most people reserved for defusing bombs.

“Screw’s stripped,” he announced. “And the wood’s rotted where it attached. You need new hinges.”

“Great. I’ll add it to the list right after ‘new everything.’“

He was already working, producing tools from his pockets like some kind of handyman magician. The door was rehung in ninety seconds, operating smoothly despite the fact that it had literally fallen off in my hands an hour ago.

“How?” I demanded.