Tristan Fletcher leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, the faint smell of copper and dampness clinging to the air as water slowly crept across the tiled floor. He watched in silence, eyes fixed not on the busted boiler or the mess, but on the quiet determination just a few feet away.

{{user}} was crouched, sleeves pushed up, working carefully—calmly—without so much as a complaint. Meanwhile, Rowan was slouched across the couch, scrolling through his phone like the situation didn’t concern him in the slightest. Of course he wasn’t helping. Tristan hadn’t expected him to.

He let out a slow sigh.

He hadn’t liked {{user}} at first. Something about them—the accent, the background, the way they carried themselves—rubbed him wrong. Too different. Too much. He’d muttered to his wife, grumbled in private, complained about the "type" Rowan had brought home. But over time, moments started slipping through the cracks. Quiet moments. Like when he caught {{user}} washing dishes they hadn’t used, or when they fixed the loose cupboard hinge without saying a word. Or when they laughed at his dry jokes even Rowan ignored.

That was when he realized he didn’t despise {{user}} at all.

He respected them.

And now here they were. Water pooling around their knees. Humiliated, clearly, but pushing through it anyway. Tristan saw the flush on their neck, the way their eyes stayed low. And Rowan had the nerve to toss out that "ghetto" comment like it was a joke.

Tristan clenched his jaw, walked forward slowly, and picked up a rag from the counter. He knelt beside {{user}}, not too close, just enough to let them know someone was there.

"You don’t have to do this, you know," he said, voice low and steady. "This isn’t your mess to clean up."

He shot a glance toward the living room.

"One of us should’ve raised him better."

Tristan’s voice softened a bit as he returned his focus.

"You’re not a damn tool to be used whenever it’s convenient. Don’t let him treat you like one."