“Locks,” I said, hefting the toolbox. “Storm rattles things loose.”
She frowned at the box. “You’re an architect who can just hire someone to do it.”
“I also have hands.” I brushed past her. The citrus-clean smell of the place had already faded under the gentler scents of laundry soap and warm skin. Lived-in. I hadn’t realized how sterile the guesthouse felt until it didn’t.
I crouched at the slider first. The deadbolt stuck, it always did after long rains. I took the lock off the door, repositioned it, and screwed it back in place. It was a simple fix. So was the loose hinge on the hallway closet and the tacky latch on the back bedroom window. Small things that keep a place from feeling safe. Small things I could fix.
She hovered nearby with her arms folded, pretending not to watch, except she was, the way people watch thunderstorms, half in awe, half daring them to come closer. “We would’ve managed until morning.”
“Maybe,” I said, tightening the last screw. “But now you don’t have to.”
A beat of silence. She leaned a hip into the counter. “Are you always this helpful?”
“No.”
That earned me the ghost of a smile. It slipped away quickly, like she didn’t trust it.
When I was done with the easy fixes, I set the toolbox on the island and slid the front window open and shut, testing the track. “You should keep this one latched. It’s a weak point.”
Madison’s chin lifted. “Nobody’s breaking into your guesthouse.”
“Bad guys don’t care about property lines.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. For a second, the air between us felt lighter. Then she remembered who she was talking to and drew the armor back over her shoulders.
I picked up the toolbox. “Anything else?”
She hesitated. The wordnohovered on her tongue, stubborn as a weed. Then, “The kitchen light flickers.”
“Let me see.”
We stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the island fixture. It was one of those glass pendants that designers loved and electricians cursed. I killed the switch, climbed onto a stool, and worked by the dim glow from the living room lamp. She steadied the stool with two fingers, like she didn’t want to admit she was helping.
“Olive settled?” I asked, voice low.
“She’s out.” A small, proud exhale. “She likes the little room in the back.”
“Good.” I tightened the collar ring, feeling the fixture sit properly. “She likes her scrambled eggs, too.”
Madison’s mouth twitched again. “Don’t get cocky. It’s not a personality trait.”
“Works for me.” I tested the switch. The bulb held steady. “Fixed.”
She squinted up at the light as if it might defy me out of spite. It didn’t. Satisfied, she dropped her gaze and caught me watching her.
There was that half-second of stillness, the charged kind you get just before a summer storm breaks. I looked away first.
“Your house,” I said, back in safe territory. “We’ll tarp it tomorrow at first light. I’ve got a crew free by noon. We’ll frame a temporary wall and take pictures of all the water damaged items. The insurance company will drag their feet, but I’ll write the report so even a newbie could understand it.”
Her throat worked. “Thank you.”
Two words, simple as a hinge, and somehow, they carried the heft of everything she didn’t want to say. I nodded once, like it was nothing.
“It’s not charity,” I added, because I knew where her mind went. “It’s a fix. The town needs you on your feet. Olive needs the roof not to drip.”
“And what do you need?” she asked, soft, almost curious.
I didn’t have a clean answer. I defaulted to the truth. “A to-do list with an end.”
