“Where’s the leaking faucet?” he asks.
I blink at him. “You don’t have to fix it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He gives me a look over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Because it’s leaking.”
The simplicity of that answer should not affect me, but it does. I am used to people offering help in big, vague ways: let me know if you need anything, call if it gets bad. Easton does not say any of that. He just picks up the washers and heads down the hall like the problem is already his because I mentioned it out loud.
I show him to the bathroom. He drops to one knee in front of the cabinet, opens the doors to under the sink, and studies the pipes with the same focus he gave Blue’s mane this morning, like whatever is in front of him deserves his full attention.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I say again, because apparently I am determined to make myself sound ungrateful.
“Red.” He reaches for the wrench, his mouth curving. “I know.”
Water ticks into the basin, each drop loud in the small room. I lean against the doorframe and watch his hands work, broad fingers moving with surprising precision. He shuts off the valve, loosens the fitting, and catches the last sputter of water in a towel I shove at him before he can ask.
His eyes flick up to mine, amused. “See? I’m helpful.”
“Never doubted that for a second.” The words should be nothing, just another bit of banter, but after Lana’s words in the grocery aisle, after the way she tried to shrink me down to the size of every fear I carry, Easton’s certainty feels dangerous in a completely different way.
I cross my arms over my chest. “You know I could’ve handled it.”
He stills for half a second, then goes back to tightening something beneath the sink. “I know.”
“Then why step in?”
This time, he looks up. There is no smirk on his face, no lazy charm to hide behind. Just Easton, steady and serious, kneeling on my bathroom floor with a wrench in his hand like this conversation matters as much as the leak. “Because being strong doesn’t mean you should have to stand there alone.”
My throat works around nothing. I look away first, focusing on the tiny chip in the doorframe paint because it is easier than looking at him.
“I’m not used to that,” I admit.
“To what?”
I pull in a breath that does not make it very far. “Someone standing there.”
The faucet chooses that moment to give one last pathetic drip. Then nothing. Easton reaches up and turns the handle. Water runs smoothly, then stops when he shuts it off. No drip. No stubborn little tick against the porcelain.
“There,” he says quietly. “One less thing for you to work on.”
I laugh, but it comes out too thin. It is a faucet. A stupid, leaking faucet. But for the first time in a long time, something broken in this house got fixed without me having to beg, barter, or bleed myself dry to make it happen.
Easton rises, wiping his hands on the towel. The bathroom is suddenly too small for both of us. Or maybe he is just too much in it. His shoulder nearly brushes mine when he steps closer, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my mouth for one devastating second before coming back to my eyes. “Anytime, baby.”
There is that word again, softer this time. Less teasing. More of a promise. Easton’s hand lifts, slow and deliberate, giving me every chance to move away, but I don’t. His knuckles brush a curl back from my cheek, barely a touch, and still my whole body is quiet.
From somewhere down the hall, Grandpa calls my name.
I jump like I have been caught doing something far worse than standing in a bathroom with a man who just fixed a leak.
Easton’s mouth curves, but he steps back this time, slow and deliberate, giving me room I did not ask for and am not sure I want. “Guess I’ll put the tools up.”
