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“Different screw holes.” He demonstrated the now-functional door. “Temporary fix. You’ll want to replace the cabinets eventually.”

“All of them?”

His silence was answer enough.

While he worked on the remaining cabinet doors, tightening and adjusting with an efficiency that was frankly insulting to my YouTube education, Noa continued her interrogation.

“What’s your job?”

“I own an interior design business.”

“Do you cook?”

“Depends on the day and the meal. Sometimes, I’m inspired. Sometimes, I burn water.”

She giggled. “Dad makes good pancakes. Only pancakes though. We had pancake tacos once. It was weird,” she repeated. Apparently, pancakes must be very important to be mentioned so many times in a conversation. Or she just forgot she just told me about it.

“It was creative,” Tyson corrected from where he was doing something complicated with my garbage disposal.

“It was weird, Dad. The syrup got on the cheese.”

“You said you liked it.”

“I lied. Sorry, daddy. Pancake tacos are gross.”

I bit back a laugh as he shot me a look that suggested I was somehow responsible for his daughter’s newfound honesty.

The mower took longer, mostly because it required actual parts that worked. He got it running though, the engine purring in a way it definitely hadn’t for me. I watched from the porch, definitely not noticing the way his shirt pulled across his back when he yanked the pull cord, or how his forearms flexed when he adjusted something mechanical I didn’t understand.

“You’re staring,” Noa stage-whispered.

“I’m learning,” I corrected, face burning.

She giggled while I considered whether spontaneous combustion was a real thing that could happen to mortified adults.

Within an hour, my kitchen was functional and my yard was fully mowed. The house still looked like a “before” picture in a renovation show, but at least now it was a somewhat operational disaster.

“I owe you,” I said as he gathered his tools.

“It’s fine.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, suddenly fascinated with returning wrenches to his toolbox. “Neighbors help neighbors.”

“Most neighbors don’t rebuild half your kitchen.”

“Most neighbors don’t move into the Henley place. Consider it a welcome gift.”

Noa tugged on his shirt. “Can Sam come for pancakes someday?”

“I’m sure Sam has…”

“Nothing,” I interrupted, because honestly, what else did I have planned? Stare at my walls and contemplate my life choices? “I have nothing planned.”

He finally looked at me then, and there was something in his expression I couldn’t read. Not pity, thankfully. Maybe understanding.

“Okay. We’ll… Let you know. It’ll probably be early in the morning. Or in the afternoon.”

“No problem. I haven’t been sleeping anyway.”

“Great,” Noa declared, like she’d orchestrated the whole thing. Which, knowing her for all of twenty-four hours, she probably had. “I can’t wait!”