It’s hot in that damp, familiar South London way that makes the air taste of rust and old wallpaper. Michael wipes his hands on a rag that used to be white, lets it fall to the carpet, and flops onto the couch beside her with a long, heavy exhale. The plumbing’s sorted—mostly—and the smell of wet metal clings to him like a second skin.

“Bloody sink had it in for me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “You’d think after all that, it’d at least say thank you.” He grins faintly, half at himself, half at her, though she doesn’t say much—just keeps her eyes on the telly, spooning cereal into her mouth.

The flat’s quiet except for the low buzz of the television and the faint hum of the pipes he’s just mended. He stretches out, one arm flung along the back of the sofa, the other tapping restlessly on his knee. There’s always something restless about him, even in stillness—a man who can’t quite settle into his own skin.

He glances sideways at her. “Michelle about?”

She shakes her head.

“Figures,” he says. “She never bloody stops. Always off doin’ something, yeah? Prob’ly forgets she’s got a house full of pipes about to explode.” He laughs softly, a kind of low, crooked sound that could be warmth or weariness—it’s hard to tell. “Lucky she’s got me, eh?”

The girl doesn’t answer, just shrugs a little. He doesn’t mind. He likes the quiet ones. Easier somehow. Quieter means safer.

He looks at the TV, though he’s not really watching. Some morning show, too bright and clean for this house. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “You ever think about leavin’ all this behind? South, I mean. Streets, tower blocks, noise. Just go somewhere where the air don’t smell like cigarettes and petrol?”

She gives a small sound—maybe agreement, maybe nothing.

“Yeah,” he says, answering for her anyway. “Me too.” He leans back again, dragging a hand across his mouth. “Tried once, y’know. Didn’t make it far. Funny thing about places like this—they get under your skin. You can leave, but you keep hearin’ it. The buses, the sirens, the neighbours fightin’. Feels wrong when it’s gone.”

He turns his head to look at her properly this time. There’s something searching in his gaze, like he’s looking for a version of himself he’s already lost. “You’re quiet,” he says softly. “That’s good. Not enough quiet people in the world. Everyone’s always talkin’, fillin’ up the air like it’s a competition. You learn more when you listen.”

She stirs her cereal. The clink of the spoon is small, steady. He nods toward the bowl. “That your dinner or your breakfast?”

She gives a faint shrug, eyes still on the screen.

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, same. Half the time I forget what meal I’m meant to be on. Wake up, it’s dark. Go to bed, it’s light. Days don’t make much sense anymore.” He runs a thumb over the callouses of his palm. “Michelle said you’ve been here what—since last year? That right?”

A nod.

“She’s good to you?”

Another small shrug.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “She means well, you know. She’s got a lot goin’ on in her head, but… she’s got a big heart.” He pauses, stares at the telly again though his eyes are unfocused. “Big hearts get messy though. Hard to keep ‘em clean.”

The flat creaks—pipes settling, walls breathing. Michael leans back, looks toward the ceiling as if listening to something only he can hear. “I like fixin’ things,” he says quietly. “Not ‘cause I’m good at it, but ‘cause it’s simple. You find the leak, you stop it. You tighten what’s loose. People ain’t like that, though. You can’t just tighten a person. Can’t fix what’s breakin’ inside ‘em.”

He looks at her again, faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Still. Doesn’t stop me tryin’.”