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I looked at the fixture. Then at him. “I was clearly fishing for praise.”

“You did good.”

“That’s better.”

His eyes warmed. I felt it all the way down to my boots.

The afternoon kept moving like that. One repair after another. A sticky window latch in 2A that needed cleaning and a small adjustment. A loose towel bar in 1D. A toilet handle in 3A that had disconnected from the flapper chain, which was a phrase I got to say with a straight face and planned to treasure forever.

At each stop, Deadeye taught instead of taking over. He let me try first. When I messed something up, he corrected me without making me feel useless. When I got it right, he said so. The fact that he’d clearly given up part of his day to trail after me through a building full of peeling paint and nosy tenants hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Around three, we ended up back in the basement because one pipe connection near the laundry machines had started sweating. Not leaking. Just damp enough to make me suspicious.

I leaned against the concrete wall while he checked it. My T-shirt stuck lightly between my shoulder blades. Music was playing somewhere upstairs, the sound thumping faintly through the floor.

“You do this with everyone?” I asked.

He straightened and wiped his hand on a rag from his back pocket. “Do what?”

“Spend your afternoon teaching underqualified people to impersonate maintenance workers.”

“Not everyone.”

I aimed for casual. What came out probably had all the subtlety of a drag queen entering a church picnic. “Just me, then?”

“Just you,” he said.

Well. Fuck. Apparently I’d gone fishing for reassurance and caught the whole damn boat.

“Okay.” I suddenly had no idea what to do with my hands. “That’s either flattering or concerning for your judgment.”

“Probably both.” He folded the rag and tucked it away, still looking at me. Then he nodded toward the pipe. “Connection’s fine. Just condensation. Wipe it down, keep an eye on it. Nothing to fix.”

“An easy one.”

“You earned it.”

We headed back upstairs. Sunlight hit the hallway window and cast long rectangles on the carpet. My boots scuffed the worn runner with each step, and Deadeye walked beside me, toolbox swinging gently at his side.

The next unit was 3D. The mystery complaint. Weird sound. Mrs. Calloway’s handwriting had gotten tighter on that one, like even she doubted the tenant’s sanity.

I knocked. The door opened almost immediately.

The man behind it was mid-thirties, maybe. Tall. Thin in a way that made him look stretched. His eyes found me first, moved down my shorts, back up to my face. Then they slid past me to Deadeye and lingered.

“Maintenance,” I said. “You reported a weird sound?”

“Yeah.” His voice was flat. He stepped back to let us in, but his body didn’t move far enough. I had to turn sideways to pass, and his eyes followed the movement.

Deadeye stepped in right behind me. Close. Close enough that his shoulder nearly touched mine.

The apartment smelled like takeout containers and something sweet gone bad. A TV played in the living room with the volume low. Clothes were piled on the couch. The kitchen counter held a collection of empty cups and a laptop with its lid closed.

“So,” I said, keeping my voice bright and professional, “where’s the sound coming from?”

“Bedroom.” He pointed down the hall without looking away from me. “Near the vent. Been hearing it at night. Like scratching.”

“Scratching.” I glanced at Deadeye. His expression hadn’t changed, but he stood slightly in front of me now, angled between the tenant and my body.