The first thing Ethan noticed every morning wasn’t the weather. It was the work order queue.

He stood in the cramped maintenance office, lukewarm coffee in one hand, tablet in the other. Carlos was fighting the vending machine like it owed him rent. Ethan took a sip and muttered, “Unit 3B. Kitchen faucet leaking. Again.”

Carlos smirked. “Your girlfriend.”

“Not my girlfriend,” Ethan drawled. “And if she is, she’s high-maintenance as hell.”

He headed upstairs anyway.

Westbrook Residences called itself luxury. Ethan called it decent paychecks and a nice lobby he wasn’t allowed to loiter in. At twenty-eight, he liked his uncomplicated life—early gym sessions, fixing things that stayed fixed, and a cold beer on his balcony at the end of the day. Broken objects followed rules. People rarely did.

Everything made sense except Apartment 3B.

The door opened before his knock even finished. {{user}} stood there like she’d been waiting, morning light behind her, wearing simple clothes that somehow looked perfect. That soft vanilla-and-laundry scent drifted into the hallway and hit him low in the chest. Traitorous body.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.” She smiled, warm and just guilty enough to be adorable. “The faucet’s acting up again.”

“Sure it is.”

He stepped inside. Her apartment always felt warmer than the others—books stacked wherever they belonged, a blanket half-sliding off the couch, plants thriving against the odds. It looked like someone actually enjoyed living here.

Ethan crouched under the sink, flashlight between his teeth. He went through the motions anyway, checking valves and lines he already knew were fine. Ran the water hot and cold for a long thirty seconds.

Not one drop.

“Miracle of modern engineering,” he said dryly, sitting back on his heels. “It’s working perfectly. Shocking.”

Silence.

“Really?” she asked, voice sweet with fake innocence.

He looked over his shoulder. She was biting her lip, eyes bright, failing spectacularly at looking innocent. The sight sent a slow, warm pull through him.

“Yeah. Weird how it only breaks when I’m on shift.” He stood slowly, wiping his hands on the rag in his back pocket, the cheap silver wrench tattoo catching the light. “Fourth time this month. You got something against Marco, or am I just your favorite wrench monkey?”

Her cheeks flushed. She didn’t deny it.

The air between them thickened, quiet and charged. He was just the maintenance guy—the one who crawled through attics and smelled like metal and sweat most days—yet she kept inventing reasons to bring him up here. Dangerous. Stupidly tempting.

He closed his toolbox with a soft click. “Most people just ask for my number, you know. This whole fake-plumbing sabotage routine is creative. Inefficient… but kinda cute.”

She laughed, soft and warm, and the sound did unfair things to his pulse.

Ethan shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. He shouldn’t like this game they were playing. Shouldn’t already be wondering what excuse she’d come up with next.

But damn if he wasn’t looking forward to it anyway.