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“You already fixed the dramatic basement tank.”

“I helped.”

“You did more than help. You descended like some competent mechanical angel.”

His mouth twitched. “What else needs doing?”

I looked toward the counter where I’d dropped the folded work order sheet. Mrs. Calloway’s handwriting was compact and disapproving. Four more units. One hallway light. One sticky window latch. One cabinet hinge. One mystery complaint that just read “weird sound” in 3D, which felt spiritually aligned with my entire life.

“You can’t possibly be volunteering for more free labor.”

“I’m volunteering to teach you.” He leaned forward and hooked a finger under the paper. “If you want.”

I watched his hand on the page. Broad fingers. Grease in the lines near his nails. An honest offer with no angle I could see. That should’ve been enough to relax me. Instead, it made my throat feel tight.

“Why?” I asked quietly.

He glanced up. “Because you want to learn.”

That was it. No lecture about how badly I’d screwed up by taking a job I wasn’t qualified for. No reminder that I needed him because I couldn’t do this myself. I wanted to learn, so he wanted to teach me. Apparently, it could be that simple.

“That is a disturbingly good answer,” I said.

He smiled a little. “Still true.”

For a second, neither of us moved. Then I pushed back from the table and stood. I was absurdly excited about spending the afternoon fixing broken shit, and I knew damn well the maintenance work wasn’t the reason.

“Well,” I said, grabbing the paper, “if you are offering to rescue my fake career, I’d be a fool to decline.”

Deadeye stood too, making his size impossible to ignore. He picked up the toolbox with one hand and nodded toward the door.

“Lead the way, maintenance tech.”

“Please say that with less affection. I’m trying to stay professionally detached.”

“You’re doing great.”

“I’m doing terrible.”

His laugh followed me into the hall.

Chapter Four

Niles

The first stop was 1B, where a cabinet door in the kitchen hung crooked and refused to close. Mrs. Kersley let us in wearing fuzzy slippers and a housecoat covered in tiny strawberries. She squinted at me, then at Deadeye, then at me again like she was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn’t agreed to do.

“Boyfriend?” she asked.

“No,” I said it too fast.

Deadeye said, “Friend,” at the same time.

Mrs. Kersley hummed like she didn’t believe either of us. Then she shuffled toward the kitchen and pointed at the cabinet with a level of offense usually reserved for tax fraud.

The hinge was loose. That, thankfully, was a language I now vaguely spoke. Deadeye set the toolbox on the counter and opened it while I crouched to inspect the screws.

“They’ve stripped a little.” For once, I wasn’t a complete fraud. I’d actually spoken repairman lingo.