Chapter 4 #2
She nods, grabbing a mop and attacking the standing water with surprising vigor.
I try to concentrate on fitting the new section of pipe from the supplies in my toolbox, but I’m acutely aware of her movements—the determined set of her jaw, the way my shirt slides off one shoulder as she works, the soft huffs of exertion that escape her lips.
It’s distracting. She’s distracting. And yet, watching her fight against the flood with the same fierce determination she applies to her baking makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“The previous tenants did a number on this place,” I say, fitting the new pipe section into place. “Cheap materials, shortcuts. I should have caught it.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says, pausing in her mopping to look at me.
“It is.” I tighten a coupling with more force than necessary. “I’m the landlord. Building maintenance is my responsibility.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and when I glance up, I find her studying me, head tilted. “You know, for someone who acts like I’m a massive inconvenience, you take this landlord thing pretty seriously.”
I grunt, focusing on the pipe rather than her perceptive gaze. “It’s my job.”
“There are plenty of landlords who wouldn’t show up for days, much less come running at the first sound of trouble.”
“Those landlords are shit at their jobs.”
She laughs, the sound bright in the disaster zone of her kitchen. “Fair enough. Still, thanks for coming so quickly. And for the clothes. And for not telling me ‘I told you so’ about the plumbing being a disaster waiting to happen.”
“I did tell you so,” I remind her, connecting the final piece. “Just not about the plumbing specifically.”
“Oh right, it was more like ‘Your entire bakery is a catastrophe and you’re going to burn the building down.’ My mistake.”
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. “Looks like water beat fire to the punch.”
“Don’t sound so smug. The day is young. I could still burn something before closing time.”
I make a show of glancing at the sodden oven. “Might be harder than usual.”
She laughs again, and the sound does something to my insides—twists them up, makes them warm and tight and uncomfortable in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.
I finish connecting the new pipe section, ensuring all joints are secure, then sit back on my heels. “That should hold. I’ll check the main and turn it back on. Go slow with the taps at first.”
I stand, my knees protesting after kneeling in the cold water, and make my way to the utility closet. When I return, Lena has made remarkable progress with the cleanup. The standing water is mostly gone, and she’s arranging industrial fans she must have pulled from storage.
“Found these in the back,” she explains. “Used them when I was painting before opening.”
“Good. You’ll need to dry everything out to prevent mold.” I move back to the sink and turn the tap carefully, watching for leaks. Water flows normally, staying obediently within the pipes. “Looks good. No leaks.”
She claps her hands together, a relieved smile breaking across her face. “You’re amazing! I was about to call a plumber before you showed up. Would have cost me a fortune.”
The mention of payment makes me stiffen. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, seriously, let me pay you.” She’s already moving toward the register in the front of the shop. “I know you took time away from your actual work, and you used your own supplies, and—”
“Lena.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “I said don’t worry about it.”
She stops, turning back to me with confusion written across her face. “But I want to. It’s only fair.”
“It’s my building. My responsibility.” I close my toolbox with more force than necessary. “I should have caught this before it happened.”
“That doesn’t mean you work for free,” she insists, stubborn as always. “You fixed it right away, on a Sunday, when most people would have charged double.”
“I’m not most people,” I growl. “And I’m not charging you for something that was my fault to begin with.”
A flush creeps up her neck, her eyes narrowing. “So what, I’m just supposed to be the helpless tenant who takes handouts?”
“It’s not a handout. It’s my job.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by her inability to see the simple logic. “You pay rent. I maintain the building. That’s the arrangement.”
“Fine.” Her voice has gone tight, controlled. “Then at least let me thank you properly.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I want to.” She cuts me off, stalking to the kitchen and opening one of the higher cabinets, the only ones spared from the flood. She pulls down a plate of something round and spiral-shaped, covered in butter and sugar. The scent hits me immediately—rich, sweet, with a hint of cheese.
“Ensaymadas,” she says, thrusting the plate toward me. “Fresh this morning. Since you won’t take money, take these.”
I stare at the pastries, then at her face. Her expression is fierce, challenging, a flush high on her cheeks. My shirt is still slipping off one shoulder, her hair curling wildly as it dries. She looks beautiful and infuriating and so goddamn stubborn I want to growl.
“I don’t need payment in any form,” I say, my voice low. “Not money, not food.”
Something flickers in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or anger. Possibly both. “Right. Because accepting anything from me would be terrible.”
“That’s not what I—”
“No, I get it.” She slams the plate into my hands with enough force that I have to catch it or risk dropping the pastries. “God forbid the mighty Thorne accept a simple thank you from the disaster tenant.”
“Lena—”
“Thanks for fixing the pipe.” Her voice is clipped, professional suddenly. “I’ll get your clothes back to you after they’re washed.”
And then she’s turning away, her back rigid, shoulders set in a line so tense I can practically feel the strain from across the room.
“You don’t understand,” I try again, taking a step toward her. “It’s not about you.”
She whirls back, eyes flashing. “Really? Because it feels pretty specifically about me. About how you’ll fix my counter in the dead of night but won’t accept so much as a ‘thank you’ to my face.
About how you’ll eat my pastries when no one’s watching but act like they’re poison when I try to give them to you directly. ”
Her words hit like physical blows, each one finding its mark with deadly accuracy. I stand frozen, the plate of ensaymadas in my hands, unable to form a coherent response.
“You know what? Forget it.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Enjoy the ensaymadas. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
She storms off toward the back room, leaving me alone in the middle of her half-flooded kitchen, holding a plate of pastries and feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck.
What just happened?
I look down at the ensaymadas, their buttery tops glistening in the overhead lights. They smell incredible—rich and complex, a harmony of sweet and savory that makes my mouth water despite the tension still hanging in the air.
This isn’t how I expected this to go. I came to help, to fix something that was my responsibility in the first place. I wasn’t looking for payment or gratitude. I was doing my job, and trying to make up for failing to do it properly before.
And somehow, I’ve managed to make her angry. Again.
I hear movement in the back room—sharp, agitated sounds of Lena presumably changing back into her own clothes. I should leave before she returns. Take my tools and go, give her space to cool down.
But the ensaymadas sit heavy in my hands, a gift forcibly given, impossible to return. And beneath the confusion and frustration, I feel something else—a nagging sense that I’ve missed something important. That my refusal hurt her in a way I didn’t intend.
I set the plate down on the counter—her perfectly level counter that I fixed in secret—and gather my tools. As I turn to leave, I take one ensaymada and bite into it, the rich, buttery pastry melting on my tongue. It’s perfect, of course. Everything she makes is perfect.
I’m halfway to the door when her voice stops me.
“You’re taking one after all?”
I turn to find her standing in the doorway to the back room, now dressed in her own clothes—jeans and a t-shirt with the bakery’s unfortunate name across the chest. Her hair is still wild from air-drying, her expression guarded.
I look at the pastry in my hand, then back at her. “Yes.”
She says nothing, but some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
“It’s good,” I add, taking another bite.
“I know.” No humility, just simple fact. It is good, and she knows it.
We stand there for a long moment, the air between us thick with things unsaid. I want to explain that my refusal wasn’t about her—that I wasn’t rejecting her, but rather acknowledging my own failure as a landlord. That I don’t deserve thanks for doing what I should have done months ago.
But the words tangle in my throat, coming out as nothing more than a rough exhale.
“I should go,” I say finally. “Let the fans do their work.”
She nods once, sharp and quick. “Fine.”
As I pass her on my way out, I catch her scent—butter and sugar and something uniquely her, now mingled with the faint trace of my soap from her borrowed shower. The combination does something dangerous to my pulse.
“Lena,” I say, pausing at the door. “The pipe... it won’t happen again. I’ll check the rest of the plumbing this week. Replace anything that looks suspect.”
She studies me, her expression softening just slightly. “Okay.”
It’s not enough. It doesn’t fix whatever I broke between us today. But it’s something.
I step outside, the cool air a shock after the warm humidity of the flooded kitchen. The ensaymada is still in my hand, half-eaten, evidence of my weakness for her baking. For her.
I finish it as I climb the stairs to my apartment, each buttery bite a reminder of how thoroughly I’ve failed at keeping my distance. Every time I try to be professional, to be just her landlord, I end up deeper in whatever this is between us.
And the worst part is, I’m not sure I want to stop it anymore.