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“The washer’s probably worn out. That’s what causes the drip.” Fabric rustled in the background. Maybe he was wiping his hands. Maybe he was leaning against a car. The mental image was distracting. “You need to pull the cartridge out. Might need pliers. Grip it and pull straight up.”

That’s what he said. Stop it.

My toolbox had pliers. I gripped the cartridge and tugged. It didn’t budge. I tugged harder, and it popped free with enough force that I nearly hit myself in the face.

“Got it,” I said, slightly breathless.

“How’s it look?”

I examined the bottom of the cartridge. The rubber washer sat there, cracked and flattened. “Like something that’s been through a lot and given up on life.”

“That’s relatable.”

I snorted. “Are you diagnosing my faucet or my personality?”

“Both, apparently.” His voice dropped slightly, more amused than before. “You need a new washer. Probably a standard size. Any hardware store will have them.”

Too bad my dad had sold all of his fake ones.

“Hypothetically, what if this person doesn’t have a replacement washer right now?”

“Hypothetically, they could flip the old one over. Temporary fix. Might buy a few days until they can get to the store.”

I flipped the washer. It sat in the cartridge looking marginally less tragic. “It’s flipped.”

“Now put it back in. Push down until it seats. Then reassemble the handle.”

I refused to let my mind go there.

Following his instructions, I slid the cartridge back into place, replaced the handle, and screwed it down. The plastic cap snapped on last. My hands were no longer trembling. Somewhere during the process, I’d forgotten to be terrified.

“Done,” I said. “Now what?”

“Turn the water back on. Same valve. Counterclockwise.”

I reached under the sink and opened the valve. When I stood up, the faucet sat silent and still. No drip. No plink. Just a perfectly functioning kitchen fixture.

“Ha!” The sound came out triumphant, a little too loud. Mrs. Howell looked up from her tea with a smile. “I fixed it.”

“You fixed it,” Deadeye agreed. “Good job, maintenance tech.”

“Don’t mock me. This is the proudest moment of my week.” Years, if I were being honest.

“Not mocking. Impressed.”

The warmth in his voice made me forget for a second that I was standing in a stranger’s kitchen displaying borrowed competence and wearing sparkly shorts. I leaned against the counter and let the success settle over me like something I’d actually earned.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Seriously. I would’ve flooded her kitchen without you.”

“You would’ve figured it out.”

“I really wouldn’t have.”

“Then I’m glad you called.” Another pause, filled with the distant sound of the garage. Someone shouted for invoice paperwork. Deadeye didn’t seem to notice. “You can call again. If you have any more hypotheticals.”

“Any more?”

“Any time. Doesn’t have to be plumbing.”