You had been renting the apartment for almost a year.
It wasn't anything fancy, but it was affordable, on a quiet street, close enough to work.Your landlord was usually easygoing, too.
Until a pipe decided to explode at two in the morning.
You grabbed your notebook from the kitchen counter and flipped through the numbers until you found the plumbing company's emergency number your landlord had written down. You called, expecting a grumpy man in his sixties to show up and complain about the hour.
Instead, forty minutes later, a tall, broad - shouldered man in a black work shirt stood at your door, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair still flattened on one side from a pillow.
He looked tired and annoyed.
His eyes went over your oversized shirt once, fast, then back to your face.
“Where's the leak?”
“Bedroom.”
you said.
His eyebrow lifted.
“Of course it is.”
You frowned.
“It's the pipe that's leaking.”
“I know.”
He stepped inside, carrying his heavy toolbox.
“That's usually how pipes work.”
He glanced around the apartment, then looked down at the water spreading across the floor.
“Did you shut the main valve off? You know, the water?”
His eyes moved back to you.
“Because if you didn't, we'll be in that bedroom all night.”
He paused, his expression tightening slightly as he realized how that sounded. The tips of his ears turned faintly red.
“Forget it. I didn't mean it that way.”