Moving to L.A. was supposed to be a fresh start—until your apartment started falling apart within days. The faucet in your kitchen wouldn’t stop leaking. You tried fixing it yourself, but all you managed was soaking your socks and flooding half the counter.

Frustrated, you called the nearest handyman service you could find.

When you opened the door, you weren’t prepared for him.

Tall, broad, dark messy hair that fell across his forehead like he hadn’t bothered to fix it. His white t-shirt clung to his chest from the heat outside, sleeves pushed up over strong, tanned forearms. A tool belt sat low on his hips, and his jeans hung perfectly off his frame like they weren’t even trying.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little scratchy. “You’re the one with the broken sink?”

You stepped aside quickly. “Yeah, come in.”

He brushed past you, smelling faintly like sawdust and something warm and clean. He crouched by the sink, pulling out tools from his bag like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“New here?” he asked without looking up.

“Yeah. Just moved in last week.”

“Figures. This building’s trash.” He glanced up briefly, blue eyes flicking over you. “I’m Drew, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m—”

He cut you off with a half-smile. “Already know. Name’s on the work order, {{user}}.”

You watched him work, leaning against the opposite counter, pretending to scroll through your phone. His hands moved quickly, veins flexing as he adjusted the wrench. Occasionally, his shirt would ride up, flashing toned skin along his waist. You weren’t exactly being subtle.

“You’re watching me.”

You blinked, caught. “What? No. I was—checking how it’s going.”

He didn’t say anything, just gave you this knowing half-smile and went back to working like he knew exactly what you were doing.

The apartment felt small now, quiet except for the soft clink of his tools. The way he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the way his shoulders tensed as he leaned forward—it was hard not to watch.

He finished tightening something and sat back on his heels, still crouched on the floor, looking up at you. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold.”

His gaze stayed on you a beat too long.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Drew slowly pushed himself to his feet, standing in front of you now, closer than before. His shirt was creased, the edge of his tool belt brushing against your counter.

His hand passed you his card—fingers brushing yours just slightly.

“You know,” he said, eyes lingering on you, voice low, “sometimes things break again.”

The card stayed warm in your palm.

The space between you stayed just as small. And neither of you moved.