You never expected your landlord to be a homicide detective.

It was a strange arrangement. The listing had been vague — an old two-bedroom in a quiet Easttown street, affordable because “the owner’s barely around.” You only met him when he showed up with a ring of keys and an apology for being late. Colin Zabel. You recognized the name before you recognized the face. Maybe from the news. Maybe from your neighbor’s gossip. Easttown’s golden boy, they called him once — before the press turned sour and the town forgot how to be kind.

He didn’t talk much, not during that first meeting, and not after. But he answered your texts fast — sometimes in the middle of the night. Sometimes with a full stop at the end of every sentence, like he was trying not to sound tired. You could always tell when he was solving something again. He never said, but it was in the pauses. The wear in his voice.

Tonight, the radiator failed again.

You didn’t want to bother him — especially after reading something about a body being pulled from the river just two days ago — but your breath was starting to cloud in the air, and your fingers hurt from typing. So you texted.

Didn’t expect him to come.

But thirty-five minutes later, there he was, knocking on your door with snow in his hair and a toolbox in hand.

“I was out anyway” he said, like that explained why he looked like he hadn’t slept.

You knew he was lying. His coat was too dry. His eyes too tired.

He stepped inside without waiting to be invited. The hallway filled with the familiar smell of him — salt, leather, day-old coffee. He knelt by the radiator like he’d done it a hundred times, muttering something under his breath about valves and pressure. You sat on the arm of the couch, watching him with quiet gratitude.

“Thought you’d be on a case” you said after a while, just to break the silence.

“I am,” he murmured, not looking up. “Doesn’t mean you should freeze.”

The way he said it — like it mattered, like you mattered — sat heavy in the room.

He worked in silence for a bit. The only sound was the click of metal and the low hum of the pipes. His shoulders were tense. His hands steady, but worn — knuckles chapped, fingertips calloused. He looked like a man always ten seconds from falling apart, but too stubborn to let himself.

When he finally stood, wiping his hands on an old flannel, he glanced around your place. Eyes lingered on the laptop, the half-drunk mug of tea. Your blanket folded neatly over the couch arm. It wasn’t much, but it was yours.

“I’ll come back tomorrow. Bring something better to patch it,” he said. Then, quieter: “You shouldn’t have to ask.”

You hesitated, not sure what to say. You didn’t want to guilt him, not when he already looked like the weight of the entire town lived on his back.

But he beat you to it.

“I know I’m not the most… reliable landlord” he muttered. “But I’m trying.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The circles under his eyes, the wear in his jaw. The way he said trying like it meant something deeper than pipes and rent.

And then, more to himself than you, he added “I don’t want you to think you’re just another thing I forgot.”

He left a few minutes later, quieter than when he came. But not before turning back at the door, hand resting on the frame.

“If it gets cold again, just call. I mean it.”

He didn’t smile. But his voice was warm. Warmer than the room had been all night.