The toilet made a wet, apologetic sound. Rhiannon stood in the bathroom doorway, arms loose, watching {{user}} kneel on her bathmat. His toolbox was open on the tile. He’d already removed the tank lid and was peering into the dark water with the calm focus of a man who had seen worse.

She should have left him to it. Gone to the living room. Instead, she stayed.

The bleach smell hit her first—sharp, clean, cutting through the flat’s stale air. It clung to his jumper, his hands, the rag hanging from his back pocket. She breathed in without meaning to, and something in her chest unclenched.

He tilted his head to reach for a wrench, and the bare bulb caught his profile. The line of his jaw. The set of his brow. She blinked.

“You look like your father,” she said.

{{user}}’s hand paused for a fraction of a second, then continued. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders shifted—attention, not offense.

“Not in a bad way,” she added. “He used to come over. For work. My dad would make tea, and they’d talk about pipes while I did homework at the kitchen table.”

She hadn’t thought about those evenings in years. Two men in work boots, laughing. Her father clapping a hand on a shoulder at the door.

{{user}} grunted. Still working. Still listening.

“You’ve got his nose,” she said. “And the way you tilt your head when you’re concentrating.” A pause. “You had the same look in secondary school. When you were figuring out who to give your candy to.”

That got a huff of air—almost a laugh. She turned and walked to the kitchen. The kettle was still warm. She filled it, flicked the switch, and leaned against the counter while it boiled. Her father’s old calendar was still on the wall, frozen on September. She should take it down. She didn’t.

The kettle clicked. She poured two mugs—his with milk, no sugar (he’d said that once at the funeral, and it had lodged in her brain like a splinter)—and carried them back.

She set his on the edge of the sink, within reach.

“Tea,” she said.

He glanced at it, nodded once, and returned to the pipes. She stayed in the doorway, cradling her own mug, the warmth bleeding through the ceramic.

“My dad,” she started, then stopped. The word still caught. “He always said your father was the only plumber in town who knew which end of a wrench to hold.”

{{user}}’s shoulders shook slightly. Laughing, she realized. Quietly.

“Your dad gave mine his first good tools,” {{user}} said. “Before I was born. My dad still has them.”

She didn’t know that. The knowledge sat in her chest like a warm stone.

He was fixing the toilet now—not just diagnosing, but fixing. She watched his hands, steady and sure, and remembered her father’s hands looking the same. The same patience. The same economy of motion.

“You’re good at this,” she said.

He mumbled something about twenty-three years of practice. She watched the back of his neck, the small scar near his hairline. She remembered his face from secondary school—softer then, rounder—but the eyes were the same. Dark. Curious. The way he’d look at her when he thought she wasn’t watching.

She was watching now.

The toilet flushed—a test flush. The water swirled clear and obedient. He didn’t stand up. He tilted his head (just like his father) and listened to the refill.

“Almost there,” he murmured.

She took a sip of tea. The bleach smell mixed with the steam.

Outside, the light was starting to fade.

He reached for his wrench again.

She stayed in the doorway.