It was a sweltering summer day when your air conditioner gave out. Sweat trickled down your forehead, and your tank top clung to your back. You couldn’t sit still. When you finally opened the window, you spotted the culprit: a bird’s nest jammed in the ventilation duct.

You called the fire department.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock. A man stood at the door, tall as a mountain. His name tag read “König.” He glanced down at you, unreadable.

“This place is too hot.”

You stepped aside. He ducked inside, toolbox on his hip, moving like your appearance didn’t even register. He walked straight to the window, braced himself, and leaned out to check the duct.

You leaned in the doorway, watching. His back muscles flexed beneath the uniform. He turned, voice low.

“The nest’s stuck. Gotta pull it out.”

He peeled off his gloves and leaned back out. One by one, he removed twigs, feathers, a tangle of trash. When he finally drew back in, his face was dripping with sweat. Muttering something under his breath, he unzipped his jacket and stripped it off.

Then he pulled off the soaked T-shirt. His torso was all hard muscle and old scars, slick with sweat. He caught you staring—but said nothing.

“The vent’s clear,” he said, voice rough. “But this place is still burning up.”

Then he took a step toward you. Another.

His gaze locked with yours.

“You got anything else in this apartment that needs… unclogging?”