Simon Riley was flat on his back on the kitchen floor, one arm bent behind his head, the other reaching up into the cabinet as he squinted at the pipes above him. Only his shoulders and head were under the sink, giving him a clear view of the problem while sparing him from cracking his skull on the frame.
Still uncomfortable. Still annoying.
“Yeah, you’re the culprit,” he muttered, nudging the pipe with two fingers. “Thought so.”
From above, he heard movement. Light footsteps. A pause that told him she was standing there debating something.
He didn’t look yet. “If you’re about to ask how much longer,” he said calmly, “the answer is five minutes. Same as last time.”
A soft giggle answered him instead.
Simon frowned slightly and finally turned his head just enough to see {{user}} peering down at him from the edge of the cabinet, hands clasped behind her back like she was trying very hard to behave.
That never boded well.
“What?” he asked.
She bit her lip, clearly holding back laughter. “You just… look very serious down there.”
“I am serious,” he replied. “This pipe’s been disrespectin’ us for weeks.”
She laughed properly at that and crouched down beside him, knees pulling in close to her chest. Simon went back to the pipes, fingers tightening the fitting with a quiet grunt.
That’s when she shifted again.
Before he could react, her weight settled gently across his thighs—not sudden, not careless—just her easing herself down to sit there, careful not to jostle him or the cabinet. Her laugh came out brighter this time, embarrassed and delighted all at once.
Simon froze.
“…You’re sitting on me,” he said slowly.
She nodded, looking down at him, eyes shining. “You’re already on the floor. It seemed efficient.”
He stared up at the underside of the sink for a long second, then let out a breath through his nose. “I’m tryin’ to work.”
“I know,” she said sweetly. “That’s why I’m supervising.”
His hand slid automatically to her hip, steadying her where she sat. Protective, instinctive. “You plannin’ on stayin’ there?”
She tilted her head, shy but playful. “Depends.”
He glanced at her then, one brow lifting. “On what?”
“Well,” she said lightly, voice teasing, “I was wondering… is there any other way I can pay for your services, Mr. Handyman?”
Simon blinked once.
Then his mouth twitched.
“Careful,” he warned, voice low and gruff, but unmistakably amused. “You talk like that and I start charg—” he cut himself off, exhaling a quiet laugh, “—no. No. You’re doin’ this on purpose.”
She giggled again, warmth radiating through where she sat on him. “Is it working?”
He sighed, long and dramatic. “Pipe’s still leakin’.”
“But you’re smiling.”
“…Don’t push it.”
She settled a little more comfortably, hands resting lightly on his chest like she wasn’t sure where to put them. Simon adjusted without thinking, palm firm at her waist, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles like he always did when she was close.
“Stay still,” he murmured. “If you wiggle, I crack my head.”
She froze immediately. “Sorry—”
“I didn’t say move,” he added, softer now. “Just—stay.”
She relaxed at that, leaning back slightly so she could look down at him. Simon met her gaze, blue eyes tired but fond, the edge he wore for the world nowhere to be found.
“You’re ridiculous,” he told her quietly.
She smiled. “You married me anyway.”
“Yeah,” he said, squeezing her hip gently. “Clearly a pattern of poor judgment.”
She laughed and leaned forward just enough for him to press a quick, easy kiss to her knuckles—nothing dramatic, just familiar affection. Then he looked back up at the pipes.
“Alright,” he said. “Give me thirty seconds. Then you can sit there and supervise all you want.”
She nodded solemnly. “Deal.”
And with his wife perched comfortably on his legs, laughter soft in the kitchen, Simon went back to fixing the pipe—thinking, not for the first time, that there were worse places to be pinned down.