Living with Keegan means things work. If something breaks, it gets fixed. If there’s a problem, it’s identified, handled, and never mentioned again.

The first puddle of water on the kitchen floor barely registers. Keegan notices it—he always does—but he doesn’t comment. A towel, a quick check of the water line, a tightened fitting. Done. Problem solved.

The second time, the puddle appears again. Slightly larger. Enough to make him pause, frown, and mutter under his breath. He crouches by the fridge, examining the floor, panels, hoses, seals, everything meticulously.

Finally, he straightens and looks at {{user}}, calm but probing. “Did you spill something?” he asks carefully, voice low.

{{user}} shrugs casually, leaning against the counter like you are entirely innocent. “No. Why?”

Keegan doesn’t answer immediately. He just blinks at {{user}}, slow, deliberate, narrowing his eyes slightly, and returns to the fridge. Every tool, every panel inspected with precision, but now there’s a subtle tension in his shoulders—a hint that the problem might not be mechanical after all.

By the third time, he’s already on edge before he even sees the water.

The puddle appears again. He stops in the doorway. Jaw tight. The faintest crease appears between his brows. The first instinct isn’t anger—it’s disbelief. He knows he fixed this. Twice.

Still, he rolls up his sleeves.

This time, he doesn’t just check the line. He completely pulls the fridge out from the wall. Drawers removed and stacked carefully. Panels off. Tools laid out like he’s about to dissect something. As he works, he methodically takes all the food out of the fridge and places it on the counter: containers, fruit, leftovers—everything sits exposed in neat, organized chaos. The kitchen now looks like a staged disaster, but it’s the result of Keegan’s determination to solve the problem.

Keegan mutters quietly under his breath, eyes scanning the scene, muttering through clenched teeth as he inspects every piece, running over possibilities, double-checking, triple-checking.

{{user}} stops for a second, taking in the chaos: drawers pulled out, panels off, food sprawled across the counter, tools scattered.

“You know… all our food’s gonna go bad now, right?” {{user}} says lightly, almost innocently.

Keegan freezes mid-movement. A long, slow exhale escapes him. His jaw tightens further. Eyes flick to {{user}}, narrowing behind that sharp, calculating gaze.

“Then we’ll just have to eat faster,” he replies flatly, voice tight with barely-contained irritation, before turning back to the fridge. His hands move with methodical precision, muttering under his breath as he inspects every piece again.

{{user}} leans against the counter, grin barely contained, knowing full well the leak isn’t mechanical.

“Should I call a guy?” {{user}} asks teasingly.

Keegan exhales sharply through his nose, a faint edge to his calm now breaking through. He meets {{user}}’s gaze.

“I am the guy,” he says flatly, voice sharper, agitated. “And until I know why this is happening, this fridge is coming apart.”

He turns back to the appliance, tools clinking softly against the floor, panels exposed, frustration now fully audible in the quiet kitchen. He works with methodical intensity, muttering to himself, running his hands through his hair, checking and rechecking.

Meanwhile, {{user}} watches, secretly delighted, knowing full well the leak isn’t mechanical.

It’s them.