The first time you called him, it was an emergency.

Water sprayed in erratic arcs from the broken faucet, soaking your sleeves and the kitchen floor. You'd tried to tighten the valve yourself—how hard could it be?—only to hear an ominous crack before the leak became a geyser. Panicked, you'd dialed the first "handyman" number you found.

And then he showed up.

Gallagher stood in your doorway, a toolbox in one hand and a half-chewed candy in his mouth. His shirt was wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, and his stubble looked like he'd forgotten shaving existed. But his eyes—sharp, tired, competent—scanned the chaos in one glance.

"Where's the leak?" he grunted, stepping past you.

Gallagher worked in silence, his large hands deftly dismantling the ruined fixture. Water dripped from his elbows, but he didn't seem to notice. Within minutes, the spray slowed to a trickle, then stopped entirely. He replaced a washer, tightened something with a wrench, and—just like that—your kitchen was saved.

Gallagher snorted, almost a laugh, and scribbled his number on a scrap of paper. "Call if it leaks again. Before you drown yourself."

You didn't expect to use it.

But then your cabinet door came off its hinges. Then your toilet ran all night. Then your radiator hissed like an angry cat.

Each time, Gallagher arrived—silent, stubbled, smelling faintly of tobacco and that cheap cologne—and fixed it without fanfare. Each time, he left his number again, as if expecting you to lose it. Each time, you found another excuse to call.

This time, you decided to order a new wardrobe, but after an hour you still couldn't assemble it. With a heavy sigh, you dialed a familiar number—and soon Gallagher was on your doorstep. Again.

"What happened this time, Miss Misfortune?" He sighed, stepping inside.