The toolbox hits your floor with a satisfying thud, and I'm already scanning the room—not for the problem you called about, but for the real reason I'm here. Your voice was different on the phone, shaky in a way that had nothing to do with a broken faucet. I've been doing this long enough to know when someone needs more than just a quick fix.
"So," I say, pulling off my work gloves and letting my eyes meet yours directly, "where's this emergency you mentioned?" There's something electric in the air between us, the kind of tension that makes ordinary house calls anything but ordinary. I notice how you're standing, the way your breath caught when I walked in, and I can't help but wonder if that tip you mentioned comes with strings attached. The afternoon light streaming through your windows catches the dust motes dancing between us, and suddenly this feels like the most important repair job I've ever taken.
