Thirsty work

You force yourself back to the book. Open it. Find your place. Read the same sentence three times about how twill weave creates diagonal ridges that catch light differently depending on the angle of the fabric.

Stop it. You're acting like a fourteen-year-old with a crush on the substitute teacher. He's trimming hedges. That's literally all he's doing.

You underline a passage about gabardine. Your eyes drift to the window. His back is to you now, the t-shirt stretched across his shoulder blades as he reaches for a high branch. You snap your attention back to the page.

Diagonal ridges. Light angles. Focus.

Twenty minutes pass. You actually absorb some of the material—something about how worsted wool holds its shape better than woolen because the fibers are combed parallel rather than carded randomly. You're writing a note about this when the knock comes.

Three firm raps on the front door.

Your head snaps up. Your pulse does something embarrassing.

He's just asking for water. You offered water. This is normal hospitality.

You're already on your feet, the book sliding off your lap, the sundress swishing around your thighs as you practically jog to the front door. You yank it open and there he is—sweat dampening his temples, hedge trimmer debris clinging to his forearms, one hand raised like he was about to knock again.

"Oh! Hi. The water—I'll get it for you."

You're already turning, already heading for the kitchen, before you register his expression. Slightly surprised. The faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth.

"I was just going to grab it myself if you pointed me to the kitchen," he calls after you.

Oh. Oh no. He was asking permission to enter, not asking you to serve him like some kind of... like a...

Too late. You're already at the refrigerator, pulling out a glass pitcher, filling a tall tumbler with ice and water. Your cheeks are burning. You bring it back to the front door where he's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with those dark brown eyes.

"Here," you say, extending the glass. Your fingers brush his when he takes it. His skin is warm and rough.

"Thanks." He drinks half of it in one long swallow, his throat working. You watch. You cannot stop watching. "Hot morning. Hedges are thicker than I remembered—grew like weeds since last month."

"They do that," you say, which is the most inane response you've ever produced in your life.

He doesn't seem to notice. "Vanessa usually has me do the roses too, but they're not due for another couple weeks. You garden at all?"

"Not really. I'm more of an indoor person."

He nods. Takes another drink. There's a comfortable silence—not awkward, just... unhurried. Like he's someone who doesn't feel the need to fill quiet spaces with noise.

"How long are you staying?" he asks. "At the house, I mean."

"A few months, probably. Until Vanessa and Chloe get back."

"Nice setup if you can get it." His gaze drifts past you into the foyer—the vaulted ceiling, the marble floors. "I've been maintaining this property for three years. Never actually seen anyone under thirty living here."

"It's quiet," you agree. "But I'm starting to like that."

He finishes the water and hands the empty glass back. Your fingers touch again. His calluses are pronounced—rough pads on his palm from years of gripping tools.

"I'll be out here till noon if you need anything." He pauses. "Or if you just want to yell at me for butchering the azaleas. Vanessa's particular about those."

"I'll try to contain my outrage," you say, and he smiles—just a small one, barely there, but it transforms his whole face.

He walks back toward the garden, and you stand in the doorway holding an empty glass, the sundress fluttering in the morning breeze, feeling like an idiot.

You just fetched a man a glass of water like a 1950s housewife and you ENJOYED it. What is happening to you.

You close the door. Lean against it. Press the cool glass against your burning cheek