The front door of the apartment swings open with a loud creak, and the first thing I notice is the smell of burnt coffee and vanilla candles.

Classy.

Lacy greets me with an apologetic smile while holding a wrench she clearly has no idea how to use.

"Thank God you’re here. The sink’s been leaking since yesterday."

"Relax, sweetheart," I mutter, dropping my toolbox near the kitchen counter. "You called the best mechanic in Briar."

That earns me a laugh. Most girls laugh at my cocky bullshit.

You don’t.

I notice you immediately without meaning to. Leaning against the kitchen doorway in an oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, staring at me like I personally insulted your bloodline. Sharp eyes. Sharp mouth too, probably.

"Pretty sure plumbers fix sinks," you say dryly before taking a sip from your mug.

Ah. One of those.

I smirk anyway.

"Good thing I do both."

You roll your eyes so hard I almost hear it.

The apartment itself is small but warm—dim yellow lights under the cabinets, soft indie music playing from someone’s speaker, rain tapping against the windows outside. Cozy enough that it almost feels dangerous staying too long.

Lacy leaves for class halfway through the repair, which means I’m stuck alone with you.

Lucky me.

You move around the kitchen while talking on the phone, completely ignoring me except for the occasional annoyed glance when my tools clank too loudly against the pipes.

Meanwhile, I’m under the sink trying not to think about the million things waiting for me later tonight. Hockey practice. Bills. My mom’s rehab payment. Checking if Jules needs grocery money again.

But fixing things? That part’s easy.

Machines make sense.

People don’t.

Especially not girls with sarcastic mouths and pretty legs walking around barefoot three feet away from me.

"You always this loud?" you ask casually while pouring more coffee.

"You always this friendly?"

"You walked into my apartment and flooded my peace."

I laugh under my breath.

"Baby, I haven’t flooded anything ye—"

The pipe in my hand suddenly jerks loose.

Cold water explodes straight out of the faucet.

Right at you.

Silence.

Then—

"What the actual fuck?!"

You stumble backward with a gasp, hoodie completely soaked while water drips from your hair onto the floor.

Shit.

I crawl out from under the sink too fast and slam my shoulder into the cabinet.

"Hey, lady, it was an accident."

"An accident?" you snap. "You just baptized me in sink water!"

Okay. That’s kinda funny.

I bite back a grin, which turns out to be the wrong decision because your eyes narrow dangerously.

"Oh my God," you say slowly. "You think this is funny?"

"No," I answer immediately.

A beat passes.

"...Maybe a little."

You grab the nearest kitchen towel and throw it straight at my face.

And for some reason, standing there soaked, furious, and glaring at me like you want to commit murder, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen all week.

Which is a problem.

Because I already know girls like you don’t fall for guys like me.

Guys like me just break things.

And somehow, after one flooded kitchen and one heated argument, I get the feeling you’re about to break me right back.