She’s under your sink again.

Swearing like a sailor with a flashlight wedged between her teeth, grease on her cheekbone, and half her flannel shirt hanging out from under the cabinet. You didn’t even ask her to fix the leak. She just noticed the drip, muttered “Damn landlords,” and got on her knees like it was a matter of national pride.

“Wrench,” she grunts.

You blink, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed, silently appreciating the view.

“…Babe?” she says again, sliding halfway out to look at you, dark brows arched under that backwards baseball hat