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“That’s either romantic or stalker behavior.”

“Romantic,” he said. “Definitely romantic.”

I returned the knee knock. He grinned and didn’t move his leg.

After breakfast, the maintenance list waited. Mrs. Calloway had slipped it under my door at some point before dawn, the paper folded in half with her tight, disapproving handwriting marching down the page. Five units. Nothing catastrophic. Just the usual collection of old-building complaints.

Deadeye came with me.

The first unit was 1C, where the bathroom door had started sticking so badly the tenant couldn’t close it. Mrs. Howell from 2C had a sister in 1C, apparently, because the woman who answered the door had the same white hair and tendency to offer tea before I’d even introduced myself.

“I’ll have it fixed in no time,” I said, setting down my toolbox with more confidence than I’d had when I’d started.

Deadeye leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, watching. He didn’t offer to help or step in. Just waited while I examined the door and figured out the problem on my own.

The hinges were loose. Easy fix. I pulled out a screwdriver and tightened them then tested the door. It swung smoothly, no sticking, no squeaking.

“There,” I said. “Fully functional.”

“Good job,” Deadeye said.

“I didn’t even have to call you.”

“Told you you’d figure it out.”

The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and I wanted to preen like a princess. So I did.

The next unit was 2B, where a toilet kept running long after it should’ve stopped. I crouched beside the tank and lifted the lid, peering at the mechanism inside. The flapper was warped, the chain too loose. I adjusted the chain first, then pulled out the replacement flapper I’d started carrying in my toolbox after the third toilet repair.

“You brought your own parts,” Deadeye said from the doorway.

“I’m learning.”

“Fast learner.”

“Because I’m fabulous.” The flapper went in without a hitch. I flushed twice to test it, and the water stopped exactly when it should have. No running or leaking. Just a perfectly functional toilet.

I stood and wiped my hands on my shorts. “Mrs. Calloway better give me a raise.”

“Ask for one.”

“Absolutely not. I’m terrified of her.”

He laughed, and the sound followed me into the hallway.

The third repair was in the basement. A pipe near the laundry machines had started dripping again, the same one we’d checked days ago. This time, the condensation had turned into an actual leak, a steady drip-drip-drip that had left a rust-colored stain on the concrete floor.

I crouched beside it and examined the fitting. The connection had loosened. Probably from the vibration of the washing machines. I pulled out a wrench and tightened it, using the same technique Deadeye had shown me on the water tank. Slow. Steady. Don’t force it.

The dripping stopped.

“Look at that,” I said. “I’m practically a professional.”

“Almost,” Deadeye agreed. “Still wearing sparkly shorts.”

“These are practical shorts.”

“They’ve got sequins on the pockets.”