Wade pov
The lecture hall smells like dust and overheated electronics, the kind of stale, recycled air that settles into your clothes if you sit in it long enough. The professor is halfway through a breakdown of fluid dynamics in closed systems, drawing diagrams across the board with quick, practiced movements while explaining how pressure builds, how stress accumulates, and how the smallest fault, if left unchecked, can turn into complete failure.
It's the kind of thing I usually lock into without effort.
Systems make sense.
Failure has a pattern.
You just have to pay attention long enough to see it.
But today, the words don't stick.
They move past me without landing, the diagrams half-formed in my notes as my pen moves out of habit rather than focus. My attention keeps drifting, pulling away from the lecture and settling somewhere else entirely.
Lizzy's car.
That uneven clicking under the engine.
The smoke curling from the exhaust.
A problem that's been there long enough to start showing itself.
My jaw tightens slightly as I stare down at the page, the professor's voice fading into the background.
That shouldn't have been missed.
Not by someone who's supposed to take care of her.
My phone vibrates against the desk, sharp enough to cut through the noise in my head. I glance down, expecting something pointless, something I can ignore.
Unknown number.
For a second, I consider leaving it.
Then I open it.
Unknown
Hey, it's Lindi, from the coffee shop. You told me to contact you if anything needed fixing…
Our dishwasher is leaking all over the floor and Lizzy is going to flip. How soon can you fit us in?
A small, involuntary smirk pulls at my mouth as I read it again.
She must think I'm a handyman or something.
My thumbs hover for a second before I type back.
Me
Is Lizzy there?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Lindi
She went to the store but she should be back soon.
I sit there for a moment, staring at the screen a something shifts quietly in my mind.
Would she even want to see me again?
She made it clear.
There isn't an us.
There won't be.
And yet—
The memory of her standing too close, not stepping away, not shutting it down when she could have, lingers in a way that refuses to settle. There was hesitation there. Something unfinished. Something she didn't quite close off, no matter what she said.
My jaw tightens slightly.
And then there's the car.
That alone is enough.
I type again.
Me
I'll be there in an hour.
I don't wait for a reply.
I'm already standing.
The chair scrapes louder than it should as I push it back, grabbing my bag in one smooth motion. The shift in the room is immediate, a ripple of attention following me as I head toward the door.
There are whispers.
There's always whispers.
A voice behind me, low but not quiet enough.
"Guess he's off to cry again—"
Something about my mom.
I don't catch the full sentence, but I don't need to. My hand curls into a fist automatically, the reaction immediate and sharp, a familiar pull to turn around and bury my fist in his face for ever thinking he gets to say a word about my mother. But I don't have time for this piece of shit and his stupid remarks.
I have to get all the way across town and back in an hour.
I exhale slowly, unclenching my hand as I keep walking.
The bike roars to life beneath me, the vibration settling into something familiar, something steady that I can rely on without thinking about it. I pull out onto the road, instinctively twisting the throttle, the speed climbing quickly as the city begins to blur at the edges.
And then—
Please be safe.
Her words replay, softer now, but just as clear.
My grip eases on the throttle and the acceleration slows.
For once, I don't push it.
I ride within the lines, following the rules in a way I normally wouldn't, aware of every turn, every stop, every shift in the road as I make my way back to the apartment.
Inside, the silence hits, but it doesn't settle the way it used to.
It doesn't feel empty anymore.
It just feels temporary.
I move quickly through the space, pulling on a clean black Henley, swapping out my jeans, brushing my teeth for the second time today while staring at my reflection a second longer than necessary before rinsing.
Fresh breath is always a good idea.
I grab my toolkit, shove it into my backpack, and head out again, taking the stairs two at a time.
The bell above the shop door chimes softly when I step inside, the sound quieter than before now that the rush has passed. The space feels different like this, slower, calmer, with only a handful of customers scattered around.
The old woman by the window is still there, knitting like she's been rooted to that chair all day.
A couple brushes past me on their way out.
I set my helmet down on a nearby table, shrugging off my jacket and backpack in one smooth motion.
"Thank God you came," Lindi calls, relief clear in her voice. "The thing is possessed, I'm telling you."
I huff a quiet breath, a small smile pulling at my mouth despite myself. The exaggeration feels ridiculous but amusing.
"Show me." I say, gesturing to the kitchen.
The kitchen is warm and slightly humid, the kind of space where everything runs constantly until something finally gives out. She switches the dishwasher on, and the sound of water spraying starts normally enough before it begins to seep out onto the floor in a steady, unmistakable leak.
I reach over and switch it off immediately, crouching down to pull it out from under the counter just enough to get access.
"Do you have a towel?" I ask, already reaching for my tools.
"Yeah, hang on," she says, rushing off before returning with two small towels.
"These okay?"
"Perfect."
I lay them out, lining them up automatically as I begin removing the casing, each screw placed neatly in order without me needing to think about it.
This part is easy.
Predictable.
Things either work, or they don't.
And when they don't, there's always a reason. Once the casing is off the problem reveals itself quickly.
The pipe has burst.
Old. Worn. Left too long.
"Yeah," I mutter under my breath. "That'll do it."
It needs replacing.
No quick fix.
I pull out my phone and call Mike.
"Mikey. Dishwasher pipes," I say, reading off the model and make.
There's a pause, followed by a low whistle.
"Fucking hell, that thing's ancient. Hang on."
I wait, my fingers tapping lightly against the counter.
"Yeah, I got something," he says after a moment. "You'll have to grab it from the warehouse. I'll text you the address."
"Send it."
There's a beat.
Then his tone shifts.
"Hey… that guy you wanted me to look into…"
My chest tightens instantly, heart slamming against my chest.
"Yeah?"
"There's a lot of shit there," he says slowly. "We need to talk. Come by tonight. You gotta see this for yourself."
Something cold settles low in my stomach, sharp and deliberate.
"Alright," I say. "I'll come by."
I end the call. The room feels different now. A little heavier than before.
The front door bell chimes.
And everything in me shifts.
I don't need to see her to know.
The sound of small feet.
Children's voices.
Her voice, underneath it.
I straighten slowly, wiping my hands on the towel as I step out of the kitchen.
And the moment I see her—
everything else stops mattering.