Then I grab my toolbox.
The plan is simple: slip into her cabin while she's out, fix the water heater I diagnosed yesterday, check that cabinet handle that's been sticking, and be gone before she gets back from her run.
She shouldn't have to ask to use my shower again. Shouldn't have to stand in my bathroom at night, wet hair and nervous energy, making me lose my mind.
Just fix it. Make sure everything works. Don't make it a thing.
I let myself in with the spare key—all the cabins have the samelock, terrible security but convenient right now—and get to work.
The water heater is an easy fix. Just needed the pilot light relit and a valve adjustment. Ten minutes, tops.
The cabinet handle takes longer. I'm shirtless because the morning is already heating up and I figured I'd be done in twenty minutes.
Except I'm not.
Because I'm being thorough. Making sure the hinge is aligned perfectly, that the door closes smoothly, that everything is exactly right.
Not overthinking it. Definitely not using minor home repairs as an excuse to take care of her in the only way I know how. I'm crouched in front of the kitchen cabinet, screwdriver in hand, adjusting the door with probably more focus than the task requires, when I hear it.
The front door opening.
Fuck.
Every muscle in my body goes taut. The tension flickers along my spine, sharp and immediate.
She's not supposed to be back yet. It's been maybe thirty minutes. She usually runs for at least forty-five.
I don't turn around. Just keep working, letting the music from my phone mask the fact that my heart rate just spiked.
"Uh... Nate?"
Her voice is quiet, tentative, almost apologetic.
The same voice that was in my shower last night, the same voice that's been replaying in my head on a loop since she left.
Sweat dampens my back. My hands tighten on the screwdriver.
Caught. Red-handed. Shirtless and uninvited in her cabin.
Great.
"Hey," I say, still not turning around, trying for casual and probably missing by a mile. "I was just—the cabinet was sticking. And I fixed your water heater. Turns out the pilot light was out."
"Oh."
The uncertainty in her voice makes something in my chest twist.
I finally turn around, and there she is.
Just inside the doorway, morning light spilling in behind her, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, running shorts and a tank top that's damp with sweat.
And I'm crouched shirtless in her kitchen like some kind of creep that broke into her cabin without actually asking her for permission first.
"I can wait outside—” she starts.
“No, I’m done.” I cut in. "I should have texted. I just wanted to make sure everything worked before you got back. So you could shower after your run."
The silence stretches between us, charged and fragile.
