y12

You've been trying to convince yourself for an hour that the bucket under the tap is temporary. Drip. Drip. Drip. A sound that makes your eye twitch. The plumbers are busy, your friends are on a bender. There's only one solution: an ad for "Handyman. Plumber."

Opening the door, you notice his hands. Confident, with clean fingers. And his gaze—calm, without pity for the lonely girl.

“Come in,” you wrap your robe around yourself. “There, under the sink.”

He silently reaches into the cabinet. You stand aside, feeling helpless. You offer him some tea to fill the gap.

"Tighten the nut," he says, climbing out. "But it's better to change the faucet."

You drink tea in silence, but without awkwardness. He leaves. The apartment is too quiet. The drops aren't dripping, but there aren't enough of them.

An hour later, the phone rings. At the doorstep of Zh12, a box and a bag in hand.

"I was driving past a hardware store," he says, looking away. "I decided to put in a decent one before they drowned. And this..."

Hands over candy.

— So that they can drink tea in peace until they are called again.

You look at him and for the first time you smile, not out of politeness.