Just focus on the wires, Miller. The zap bit into his fingers the second he looked, but his eyes drifted up, out the window—and onto you. You were kneeling in the garden bed by your house, wrist-deep in dark soil. Sunlight gilded your skin. His eyes caught the bare curve of your spine as your shirt rode up with each stretch. He hissed, jerking his hand back from the breaker.

He was supposed to be working—minding his own business, tinkering at his table. Not watching the street. Not watching you. The breaker sat cold and sharp; the wires and rusted coil should have demanded focus, but his pliers hovered uselessly. Dust floated through sunlight, a curtain fluttered. Outside, life continued: a bird chirped, a dog barked.

Then voices. Dina, animated, was out there with you. You frowned, shook your head at something she said, and his chest ached. He wanted to know what she asked, what you needed. He’d do it. Build it. Fix it. Find it. Asking meant talking, talking meant being near—and he didn’t allow that kind of luxury. If you saw him, really saw him, you’d see the way his eyes lingered, jaw clenched, heat rising… and you’d run.

Dina gestured toward his house; your eyes followed, shrugged. Joel froze. Indifferent? Unbothered? That hollow thud behind his ribs wasn’t from a breaker. Dina, persistent, dragged you up his walkway.

“Joel?” she called. He scrambled to look busy. “Yeah, come in.”

Your legs came into view, sun-warmed, long. He forced himself not to look higher. The wires. Focus. Dina plopped into a chair, asking him to teach her; he grunted, trying to seem casual. You hesitated, then sat across from him, tension spiking the room.

Dina introduced you: “My new best friend.” She praised your apple pie; Joel muttered he knew—he’d had it before, left for him on a rainy afternoon. It had been perfect, nostalgic, impossible to hate. He wasn’t strong enough to hate you.

Dina left for Ellie, leaving silence thick as syrup. Joel exhaled. You lifted your eyes. Your words were soft, hesitant. You told him your water heater had issues—cold water, weak pressure. His gaze snapped up. Anything you needed. He’d do it. He cleared his throat, voice catching: “Yeah. Sure. How’s tomorrow?”

He spent the night restless, imagining you freezing, wet, goose-bumped. Too old, too foolish, and yet… he couldn’t ignore it.

Next morning, he carried a toolbox across the street. Your garden bloomed, blackberries climbing your fence. You opened the door, surprised he’d shown. He kept his face hard, let you step aside. Your kitchen smelled of cinnamon and woodsmoke. Fresh flowers, little paintings. You led him to the basement; you hovered as he ducked into the dark.

The water heater had nothing wrong. Main switch off. He flipped it, waited for the hum, returned upstairs. Steam curled from the sink. You tested it; flushed, soft-lipped, and he forced himself not to linger on thoughts best left unthought.

“You should be all good now,” he said. You murmured thanks, a bit shy, pushed cookies at him. He refused, backed toward the door: “Just holler if there’s anything else.” You smiled, soft, playful. Somehow, you’d brought him here on purpose.

But the heater broke again days later. Lights went out in your second bedroom. On Saturday, the curtain rod fell.

Joel climbed a small ladder in your bedroom, adjusting the bracket. You sat on the bed, legs swinging, chatting about small things. He hummed, nodding, letting your voice fill his focus, keeping him anchored. Your room smelled like you. A nightstand dish with jewelry, a pressed flower in a book. Your closet door cracked to show laundry. All small, domestic, distracting details.

“You sure must’ve worked real hard to get this damn thing off the wall,” he murmured. Your eyes widened, mouth parted—caught. He realized he couldn’t stop thinking about you, even if he wanted to.

He kept returning. Space heater buzzing, curtain bracket, flipped breakers. Every visit gave him a small inroad into your life. Every time he left, he carried the lightness of you: apple pie, cinnamon. He was so fucked.