Fifteen minutes later, the leak was gone. It was like it had never happened, like I’d made it up with my own loneliness.
Jake stood, wiped his hands on a cloth, and finally spoke.
“If it drips again, call me.
Not the landlord; that will take too long. And I know what I’m doing.”
I didn’t ask why. I didn’t ask how he knew to do it.
I didn’t ask anything.
Then he left, forgetting his pliers on the bathroom counter.
The next morning, I grabbed them from the counter. They were heavy and worn, clearly used for more than one rescue mission. I held them longer than I should have.
They didn’t belong here.
But lately, neither did I.
I meant to return them immediately. But I waited. Something about that night sat with me longer than I expected.
It wasn’t just the silence or the leak. Jake’s presence had left a mark.
It was the way he fixed things without fanfare, without asking what I had tried, and without acting like I’d done it wrong.
It made me feel something I couldn’t name. It wasn’t attraction…
it wasn’t longing. It was something much quieter. Maybe it was the realization that I had stopped expecting to be helped.
The next time my husband called, it was three days later.
His voice was cheerful, tired, and very distracted.
“Flight got delayed again, Sim,” he said. “You good?”
“Great, you figured it out by yourself? Well done.”
“No, Benjamin.
I asked a neighbor for help. I posted it in the building chat.”
