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“Several feet over. Possibly drowning. Metaphorically. For now.”
“Send me the address.”
Relief hit me so hard I had to lean against the concrete wall. “You’ll come?”
“Already grabbing my keys, sparkles.”
Twenty minutes later, a motorcycle pulled up outside the apartment building. I watched from the basement stairs as Deadeye swung off the bike and grabbed a toolbox from the saddlebag. He’d changed out of his work shirt into a plain black tee. The sleeves hugged his arms in a way that made me forget, temporarily, about the flooding.
Pushing open the basement door, I waved him over. “Down here. Mind the stairs. They’re older than my emotional baggage.”
He descended with the toolbox in one hand, his boots heavy on the concrete steps. The basement bulb caught the angles of his face, the way his eyes moved over the space with quick assessment.
“That’s a water tank,” he said.
“I noticed.”
“And that’s a puddle.”
“Also noticed.”
He set down the toolbox and approached the tank. His hand pressed against the metal, feeling the vibration. “How long’s it been leaking?”
“I found it this morning. Mrs. Calloway mentioned something about water pressure being weird, so I came down to check.” I gestured at the puddle. “Found this.”
Squatting beside the tank, he ran his fingers along the base where the water had collected. Getting a closer look, his expression shifted into something focused. Calm. The same look he’d had when he’d fixed my car, like problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved.
I stood there in my practical shorts and my borrowed competence watching him work and felt something dangerous settle into my stomach. Something that could become very complicated very fast.
“Bad news,” he said after a minute. “The valve’s shot. Needs replacing.”
“How bad is bad?”
“Not catastrophic. But not something you can fake with a phone call and a prayer.”
“The prayer part I had. The rest I’m unprepared for.”
Straightening, he wiped his hands on his jeans and turned to face me fully. His blue eyes held mine with that same easy steadiness he’d shown since the day I’d met him, without judgment or impatience. Just presence.
“I can get the part,” he said. “Replace it today. But I’ll need to show you how, not just talk you through it.”
“You’re willing to do that?” I had never met anyone willing to give up their time to help me. Best friends didn’t count.
“Already here.”
He needed to stop offering kindness so freely or I might overdose on it. I crossed my arms then uncrossed them, scuffing my boot against the concrete as I shifted my weight. “Seriously, why are you helping me, Deadeye? I’ve called you every day since I was hired. Most people would’ve blocked my number by now and labeled me too needy.”
Deadeye leaned one shoulder against the tank, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Maybe I like the phone calls.”
“I’m being serious.” Stress was starting to creep into my tone, making me sound a little whiney and undercaffeinated. I was too overwhelmed to even handle gentle teasing.
“So am I.” His voice stayed even. “You’re trying to do something hard. Pretending you know what you’re doing while figuring it out as you go. That takes guts.”
“It takes stupidity.”
“Same thing, sometimes.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, you’re funny when you’re panicking.”
“I’m always panicking.” That wasn’t a volley. It was saying the quiet part out loud. But Deadeye’s presence somehow calmed my rising anxiety, bringing it down to more manageable levels.
