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Drip.

We both freeze.

Drip.

“That’s not—“ I say.

Drip.

“Is that the sink?” she whispers. She hasn’t moved. Neither have I.

It’s the sink. Of course it’s the sink. The one connection I didn’t tighten, because I was flat on my back losing my mind over a woman handing me pliers. I break away, duck back under, get a hand on the fitting, and the second I touch it, it lets go.

A spray of cold water. Right in the face.

I get the line shut off in about two seconds, but two seconds under a geyser is plenty, and I come out from under the cabinet soaked from the collar up, water running off my jaw.

Olivia is trying so hard not to laugh. She’s failing. Both hands pressed over her mouth, shoulders shaking, and it’s the least composed I have ever seen her, and I would fix a thousand sinks to keep her looking like that.

My hands are wet. My sleeves are wet. The only dry thing left on me is the front of my shirt, so I do what any man does. I grab the hem and drag it up over my face to wipe the water off.

When I let it drop, she’s not laughing anymore.

She’s just staring.

“Why did you do that?” Her voice has gone strange.

“Do what?”

“Wipe your face. Like that.”

“Because my face got wet?”

“Your chest,” she pauses, “is really nice looking.”

It comes out flat and fast and completely without permission, and I watch it hit her a half second after it hits me. Her eyes go huge. Her hand claps over her mouth like she can shove the words back in. And she’s up, on her feet, backing away until the counter catches her at the small of her back and stops her.

I get up too. Slow.

Because here’s the thing. This woman has been honest with me from the first text, every word weighed before she let it go. And just now, she let her true thoughts go.

And I think that might be my new favorite thing in the world. Olivia, a half second ahead of herself. The truth out of her mouth before the careful part of her can catch it and keep it in.

I want to hear it again. And I am not about to let her pretend it didn’t happen.

I cross the kitchen. I set a hand on the counter on either side of her, boxing her in, not touching, close enough that she has to tip her chin up to keep my eyes.

She’s breathing like she ran here.

“Olivia,” I say.

“That was a medical observation.” Her chin lifts. “Purely clinical.”

“Was it?”

“You have very good... musculature.”

“Musculature?”