You sighed again, staring at the faucet of the hospital, remembering yours strangely.“I swear, this thing will never stop leaking at my place” you muttered during lunch break, rubbing your temple. James glanced over, raising an eyebrow.

“You still haven’t fixed it?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“I keep meaning to, but—” You shrugged, “It’s annoying, but I’m too tired to deal with it.”

Later that night, just as you were about to crawl into bed, there was a soft knock at your door. Opening it, you found James, tool kit in hand, sleeves rolled up like he was ready for a mission.

“Figured I’d save you the hassle,” he said with that calm, reassuring smile you’d come to love.

You let him in, watching as he knelt by the sink. His hands worked expertly, the faucet soon silent.

While fixing the faucet, his eyes kept flicking to you — soft, thoughtful, a quiet kind of warmth filling the room.