Jordan leans in, hip against the counter, elbow bumping mine. “Some of us prefer not to have our taste buds seared off before sunrise.”
“It’s 6:23,” I reply, nudging back.
Jordan’s mouth quirks. “Even worse.”
Just like that, we fall into our usual rhythm, the endless back-and-forth that doesn’t matter but means everything. Jordan recounts a dream about a raccoon and a leaf blower; I warn them that the dish towel they’re using is the one I use for paintbrushes. They keep wiping anyway. I’m deflecting, and they know it, letting me pretend, and the tenderness of that makes my throat tight enough to ache.
Jordan’s thumb finds a smudge on my wrist—blue paint, probably—and rubs it absently while they talk. The touch is casual and intimate, and it vibrates through my skin, belonging to people who know how to share their lives.
“We should probably deal with last night’s disaster,” I say, gesturing at the carnage on the table.
Jordan shrugs. “Probably.”
“Or we could not.”
Jordan flashes a quick grin. “Also valid.”
My phone buzzes, vibrating against the countertop between us. MELVIN, all caps, screaming for attention.
I answer. “Hey.”
“Pipe’s burst.” Melvin’s voice, abrupt and unceremonious, like a fist pounding gravel. “Under the utility sink. Water everywhere. I’ve been here since five.”
I close my eyes. “How bad?”
“Bad enough I’m using your good towels. The ones with the ducks.”
I wince. “I’ll be there in ten.”
“Bring Vale if they’re still there. Their hands are better than mine for this.”
I try to form words, but Melvin’s already hung up.
Just like that, the kitchen fantasy—the warmth, the ease, the confetti in my chest and Jordan’s thumb on my wrist—is snapped. Gone. I’m already running for my bedroom to throw on clothes, my brain inventories the hardware I’ll need: pipe cutter, coupling, maybe a new PVC section. My body moves with the authority of habit, but my heart is back in the kitchen, clinging to the sight of Jordan soft with sleep.
Jordan steps into the room behind me, tugging on the rest of their clothes quickly. “I’ll come.”
The words build in my throat, ready and familiar.It’s fine. I’ve got it. You don’t have to.Three years of solitude have made them reflex. But I don’t say them. The silence is heavy, and Jordan’s gaze is unwavering, and the truth is, I don’t want to do this alone.
I nod. Once. Sharp.
Jordan grabs boots from by the door, stomps them on without fuss, and just like that, we’re out into the truck, headedfor Springs & Bells, a burst pipe and a morning after threading between us. My hand finds theirs on the gearshift, the fit startling in its rightness.
The utility sink has staged a coup and Melvin is its first casualty. Water sheets across the stockroom floor, duck towels dark and sodden, the tide clawing up shelving legs. Melvin crouches with a wrench, cap pulled so low I can’t see his eyebrows, radiating the kind of outrage only plumbing can summon in a man who’s seen seven decades and still expects the world to behave.
“About time,” he barks, not even glancing up.
“Good morning, Melvin,” I say, discarding my shoes and hauling sleeves to my elbows. “How much water did it leak?”
“Enough to drown a terrier. Not that I’d recommend it.”
Jordan drops into a crouch beside him, eyes already tracking the pipe’s fault line. “Coupling’s split. PVC or copper?”
“PVC. Drew swapped it four years ago. Cheap.”
Jordan takes the pipe cutter from my hand, our fingers grazing. I pretend not to notice, lying to myself with Olympic-level determination.
I leave them there; I should open the store, and honestly, watching Jordan’s forearms flex isn’t going to get anyone anywhere. I flip the sign, start the fans, count the register, trying to act like a person who didn’t, less than half a day ago, come apart under Jordan Vale’s mouth so thoroughly I’m still scraping the memory off my skin.
