Chapter 4
thorne
SUGAR AND SPICE (AND INFURIATING LANDLORDS)
The sound of it reaches me before anything else—the unmistakable rush of water where water should not be rushing.
I freeze mid-sand, my hands still pressed against the oak table I’ve been finishing. My ears prick, swiveling toward the floor beneath me where Lena’s bakery sits. Then comes the crash, followed by her voice—a string of curses that would make lesser men blush.
I’m moving before I consciously decide to, dropping tools and taking the stairs two at a time, my hooves thundering against the steps with an urgency that surprises even me.
The past few days have settled into a dangerous rhythm—me pretending I’m not watching her bakery, her pretending she doesn’t notice, both of us dancing around this... whatever this is. But there’s nothing pretend about the sounds coming from her kitchen now.
I burst through the door without knocking, the bell above it jangling violently. The smell hits me immediately—yeast and sugar, yes, but underneath it all, the mineral scent of water flooding where it shouldn’t be.
“Lena?”
“Back here!”
I follow her voice through the empty front of the shop to the kitchen, where I stop dead in my tracks.
Water gushes from beneath the sink like a demented fountain, spraying in violent arcs across her newly-leveled counter.
The floor is already covered in an inch of water that sloshes around my hooves as I enter.
And in the middle of it all stands Lena, wielding a wrench in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other, looking like a drowned rat and twice as furious.
Her hair is plastered to her cheeks, her bakery whites now translucent and clinging to every curve of her body. My mouth goes dry despite the deluge surrounding us.
“Don’t just stand there!” Lena shouts, waving the wrench like it’s a magic wand that might stop the fountain of water spraying from beneath her sink.
“Help me or get out of the way!” Her eyes are wild, panic and frustration warring on her face as she tries to stem the tide with nothing but determination and inadequate tools.
The sight of her—drenched, furious, and still somehow beautiful—makes something in my chest tighten uncomfortably.
I shake it off and wade through the rising water toward her, already calculating what I’ll need to fix this disaster.
“Give me that,” I grunt, plucking the wrench from her fingers. Our skin brushes, hers cold and wet, mine burning in comparison. “What happened?”
“What does it look like? The pipe exploded!” She’s shouting over the hiss and spray of water. Her hair is plastered to her face in dark tendrils, and there’s flour on her cheek turned to paste by the water. “I was just washing dishes and then—boom! Niagara Falls in my kitchen!”
I drop to my knees in the water, ignoring how it soaks through my jeans.
The cabinet beneath the sink is already a lost cause, the particleboard swelling and warping.
I reach in and feel along the pipe, locating the burst section by touch alone.
Cold water rushes over my forearm, soaking my sleeve to the elbow.
“I need to shut off the water main,” I tell her, pulling back. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know!” Her hands fly up, sending droplets flying from her fingertips. “Do I look like I know where the water main is? I make pastries, Thorne. Pastries!”
Despite the urgency, I feel my mouth twitch. “Calm down. It’ll be in the utility room.”
“Which is where, exactly?” She’s following me now, sloshing through the water, leaving wet footprints on the slightly drier floor of the front shop.
“Back corner, probably. Small door. Might look like a closet.”
We find it tucked behind a shelf of supplies, and I wrench it open, revealing a tangle of pipes and valves. I locate the main immediately and twist it shut with a grunt of effort. The rushing sound from the kitchen dies down, leaving only the gentle splash of standing water.
“Oh, thank God,” Lena breathes, sagging against the doorframe. “I thought I was going to drown in my own bakery. What a stupid way to die.”
“You weren’t going to drown,” I say, wiping my wet hands on my already-soaked jeans. “Flood, maybe. Destroy all your equipment, definitely.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting? Because you suck at it.” She pushes wet hair from her face, and I notice her hands are shaking slightly. Not just angry, then. Scared.
Something protective stirs in my chest. “It’s fixable. I’ll need tools. Mine are upstairs.”
“I’ll come with you,” she says immediately, then seems to realize how it sounds. “I mean—to help carry things. And to get dry clothes. And to not be alone in my flooded kitchen having a meltdown.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, already moving toward the door.
She follows me like a drenched shadow, her shoes making sad squelching sounds against the floor.
We walk in silence across the courtyard and up the stairs to my apartment.
I’m hyperaware of her behind me, of the water dripping from both of us, marking our path like breadcrumbs.
My apartment door swings open with a creak. I’m suddenly, painfully conscious of my space—the half-finished furniture projects scattered about, the sparse decor, the lingering scent of sawdust and coffee. It’s not meant for visitors. It’s not meant for her.
“Wait here,” I say, pointing to the entryway. “I’ll get towels.”
She nods, arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her. It’s disconcerting. Like seeing a bird with clipped wings.
I return with towels and thrust one at her, careful not to touch her fingers again. “Dry off. I’ll get my tools.”
While she mops at her face and hair, I grab my toolbox from the workshop and find a spare t-shirt—one that will swallow her whole, but at least it’s dry. I hesitate, then grab a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist as well.
“Here,” I say, pushing the clothes into her hands. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to change.”
She blinks at the bundle, then up at me, surprise softening her features. “Thanks.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. “Can’t have you catching pneumonia and blaming me for it.”
“God forbid I add to your list of tenant grievances,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. She disappears into the bathroom, and I change quickly in my bedroom, swapping my wet clothes for dry ones.
When she emerges, my breath catches in my throat.
My shirt hangs to her mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one shoulder to reveal smooth brown skin.
The sweatpants are rolled at the ankles and cinched tight at the waist, and still they barely stay on her hips.
Her wet clothes are bundled in her arms, her hair twisted up in the towel.
“Ready?” she asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.
I grunt and grab my toolbox, leading the way back downstairs. The silence between us feels charged, different. As if seeing each other in this context—me coming to her rescue, her in my clothes—has shifted something fundamental.
Back in her kitchen, the water has stopped flowing, but the damage is evident. Water covers the floor in shallow pools, seeping into baseboards and under appliances. Her supplies—flour, sugar, chocolate—sit on high shelves, untouched by the flood, but the cabinets below are soaked.
“It’s a mess,” she says quietly beside me.
“Yes,” I agree, because there’s no point in lying. “But fixable.”
I wade back to the sink and kneel, opening the cabinet to reveal the full extent of the damage.
Water has transformed the particleboard into a soggy mess, and the copper pipe has split along a seam, the metal curled outward like petals on a deadly flower.
I run my fingers along the break, assessing the damage while trying to ignore the heat of Lena’s gaze on my back.
Her presence is a physical thing, pressing against my skin, making the confined space of the kitchen feel even smaller.
I take a deep breath and reach for my tools, focusing on the problem at hand rather than the woman wearing my clothes, smelling of my soap, standing close enough that I can hear every anxious shift of her weight.
“How bad is it?” she asks, kneeling beside me, peering into the cabinet.
Her proximity makes my skin prickle. My shirt hangs loose on her frame, the collar dipping to reveal the delicate curve of her collarbone. I force my eyes back to the pipe.
“Corroded. Should have been replaced years ago.” I run my thumb over the split metal. “Water pressure finally won.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes.” I pull out a pipe cutter from my toolbox. “I need to cut out the damaged section and replace it. Do you have any buckets for the remaining water?”
She scrambles to her feet. “Yes! And mops. And towels. I’ll get everything.”
She bustles away, and I allow myself one deep exhale before returning to the task. The pipe is worse than I initially thought—not just the obvious split, but signs of corrosion extending further along. This isn’t a recent development. This is neglect. My neglect.
I should have checked all the plumbing when she moved in. Should have replaced these old pipes before they had a chance to fail. Instead, I was too busy pretending she didn’t affect me, too focused on maintaining distance, to do my actual job as her landlord.
By the time Lena returns with an armful of cleaning supplies, I’ve already cut away the damaged section of pipe and am measuring for the replacement.
“I brought everything I could find,” she says, dumping towels, mops, and buckets onto the wet floor. “What do you need?”
“Space,” I grunt, immediately regretting how harsh it sounds. “Just... I need to focus.”
“Right.” She takes a step back, hugging herself. “Sorry.”
Guilt twists in my gut. “You can start mopping up, if you want. But keep clear of the cabinet until I’m done.”