Work Text:
Till
The sink started screaming at exactly 7:42 A.M.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not in a charming, old-building in Brooklyn, pipes-groaning-like-whale-song sort of way.
No.
It screamed.
Till froze mid-toothbrush, bubblegum-flavoured foam dribbling down his chin in a slow, humiliating drip because his obnoxious roommate insisted on buying toothpaste that tasted like a children's birthday party. He blinked at his reflection as the kitchen released a shriek so violent it sounded like a kettle being exorcised.
He stared at his reflection. His reflection stared back, equally betrayed.
"...No," Till told the mirror, pointing his toothbrush at it like this was somehow its fault. "Don't start today. I have plans."
The sink screamed louder. Wetter. More threatening. Then it escalated. Something clunked. Then gurgled — the wet, unmistakable sound of something surrendering.
Then came the splash.
Till dropped the toothbrush into the sink without turning the water off — because priorities — and half-spat, half-choked, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist as he bolted for the kitchen like a man responding to a bomb siren.
He skidded to a stop in the doorway. And because the universe clearly hated him — he stubbed his toe on the skirting.
Till cursed loudly.
Water was already geysering from beneath the sink cabinet, splashing across the blue tile in violent, little arcs like it had been waiting years for this moment. His socks were soaked instantly. The hem of his pants darkened. A rogue splash hit his arm with too much enthusiasm for him to believe that there weren't evil, terrible, karmic forces behind this.
He stood there for a long, stunned second, staring at the disaster with the exact expression a medieval peasant might have worn watching a dragon descend upon the crops.
"...I pay rent," he said quietly, deeply betrayed.
The cabinet door rattled. Water burst through the seams. A drop hit his cheek. Another hit his shoulder. One landed directly in his open mouth.
It tasted like pipe. And regret. And 1930s plumbing decisions.
Till recoiled, gagging.
"Oh, that's illegal. That cannot be up to code. That cannot be—"
The sink screamed again.
"STOP DOING THAT."
It did not stop doing that.
It screamed louder, actually.
Till crouched. He grabbed the cabinet handle and yanked it open with the confidence of someone who had never once succeeded at a home repair on his life. A pressurised jet of water shot directly into his face, straight out of the long, thin metal pipe that was now more orange with rust than the clean silver tone metal should be.
He slammed the cabinet shut.
"Okay," he breathed, stumbling backward toward the fridge — the only safe, dry territory left in his immediate vacinty. His socks squelched sadly.
Till ran both hands down his face. Then dragged them through his hair hard enough to sting.
"Okay. Fine. I'm calm. I'm an adult. I handle things maturely."
The sink responded by making a noise like a goose being stepped on.
Till stared at it.
"...I hate you."
Water continued pouring onto the floor.
He immediately considered his options.
1. Fix it himself.
2. Call the landlord.
3. Hire a service.
4. Move out immediately and become a moss creature where New York City plumbing could not find him.
Option four was strong. Tempting. Spiritually aligned. But unfortunately, he owned too many hoodies and none of them were wilderness-grade. Also: his roommate would throw a fit.
Option two was impossible, because his landlord was a shrivelled fossil of a man who looked at Till like he personally invented the concept of property damage and looked at him the way historians looked at the fall of Rome — with deep disappointment.
Option one would end in tears, blood, and a YouTube tutorial titled Beginner Pipe Repair (EXTREMELY EASY, NOT CLICKBAIT) that would absolutely, without question, lie to him.
Which left only one option.
He looked at the sticker taped to the fridge.
CITYFIX MAINTENANCE — FAST, RELIABLE, FRIENDLY.
Till narrowed his eyes.
"Those are all lies," he informed it.
CityFix was, historically, none of those things. It was also — unfortunately — the only company his landlord had a package deal with, which meant they were cheap and morally flexible. Just like his landlord.
Last time his router died, they'd sent a fifty-something man who stole three of his roommate's miniature succulents and then asked for a tip. The time before that, when the microwave stopped heating and instead started whispering in radioactive sound waves his roommate claimed was "Russian Morse code", they'd dispatched an elderly woman who fixed it in three hours while muttering about Till's hygiene and judging the mac-and-cheese splatter inside like it was a moral failing.
The sink gurgled. Loudly. Like it was laughing at him.
"Shut up," Till hissed.
It gurgled harder.
Till flipped it off and dialed.
Twenty-seven minutes later, he was mopping the floor with a T-shirt he already regretted sacrificing when someone knocked.
Till eyed the door like it personally offended him.
It wasn't a normal knock. A normal knock sounded polite. A normal knock hesitated. A normal knock questioned itself, especially if the person knocking was his neighbour.
This was a knock knock knock that sounded efficient. Decisive, like the person on the other side alphabetised their spice rack and filed taxes early for fun.
Till squinted at the door. God help him. Who had CityFix sent this time?
He pushed himself upright, damp socks squeaking across the tile, leaving weird, tragic little squiggle prints behind him. His hair was still half wet from splash damage, sleeves rolled unevenly. His shirt clung slightly to one shoulder where it had been attacked — and defeated — by pipe water.
His expression was already set to pre-irritated — his default defence against the world. He unlocked the door mid-rant.
"FINALLY. What part of 'emergency, urgent flooding' does your company not—"
He yanked the door open.
Then stopped.
His eyes landed first on the hands.
Strong hands. Steady hands. Hands that were wrapped around the handle of a toolbox that looked heavy enough to contain a small engine. These were not plant-stealing hands. Not arthritic hands. Definitely not morally suspicious hands.
Till blinked. He looked up.
Oh.
The man standing in his doorway was not the usual CityFix disaster employee.
He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a dark work jacket dusted faintly with plaster and something that might've been sawdust. His tool belt was slung low, gloves tucked into one pocket, hair slightly messy like he'd run a hand through it five minutes ago and decided that was good enough.
His face was calm. Neutral. Unbothered.
There was a beat.
Till stared.
The guy glanced down at his clipboard, then back up at him. His voice, when he spoke, was low, flat, and absurdly steady and unfairly composed.
"Sink issue," he said simply. Like a declaration. Like sinks everywhere personally filed reports to him.
Till blinked again.
"...Yes. I mean. Yes."
The guy stared at him. Then he nodded once, efficient. "I'm Ivan."
Till nodded automatically. He stared harder.
"...Okay."
Ivan waited. Till startled.
"Oh. Right. Sorry. I'm Till."
The sink screamed louder. Water splashed violently.
Ivan's gaze shifted past Till toward the noise. Slowly, it returned. He nodded in the direction of the kitchen.
"Heard it was 'urgent'."
Till kept staring for a second too long. He then realised he was still blocking the doorway like a malfunctioning NPC and stepped aside too fast, nearly tripping over his own foot.
"It's just—" he cleared his throat. "Being dramatic. Sorry. About before."
Ivan raised an eyebrow. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile — but something dangerously close.
Till noticed. And for reasons completely, totally unknown to science, his stomach did a small, traitorous flip.
He immediately scowled harder to compensate.
"You gonna fix it," he asked, "or critique it from afar?"
Ivan lifted his toolbox slightly. Something inside it rattled against the metal walls.
"Fix."
"...Good," Till's voice caught on the word. He cleared his throat, cheeks heating. "That's good. Fixing is good."
They stared at each other one second too long.
"Are you going to let me inside," Ivan asked slowly, mouth twitching again, "or is there a password?"
Till short-circuited.
"Oh— right. Door."
Ivan stepped inside. Closed it gently behind him.
The apartment filled once more with the distant shriek of plumbing despair. Ivan stopped mid-step.
"Is it always that loud?" he called over his shoulder, stepping further into the kitchen, shoes splashing in puddles.
Till crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Re-crossed them differently. Tried for casual.
Absolutely failed.
"No. Well. Sometimes. It kind of growls, when you turn it on. My roommate has hair. A lot of hair. Like, concerning amounts. The pipes here are all connected and he keeps—"
He stopped.
Why was he explaining hair?
Why was he talking?
Why was he alive?
Ivan nodded anyway like that had been vital technical information.
Then, without another word, he rolled up his sleeves and crouched near the sink like a soldier approaching a battlefield. Water arced over his head.
Till watched.
He did not notice he was still holding the soggy T-shirt mop. He did, however, notice the way Ivan leaned closer to the sink — steady, focused, completely unbothered by the chaos like this was just another mildly inconvenient Tuesday and not a mild flashflood.
Till leaned against the wall. Nearly slipped. Recovered with whatever rremained of his dignity.
"You're weirdly calm," he said.
Ivan glanced back once. "It's a sink."
"A hostile sink," Till corrected.
Ivan considered that.
"I've handled worse."
He opened the cabinet. Water blasted him directly in the face.
The room went very quiet.
A drop ran down Ivan's nose. Another traced the line of his jaw. Slowly, he closed the cabinet again with measured precision.
"...Yeah," he said evenly. "That's broken."
Till snorted before he could stop himself.
Ivan
Ivan had seen worse. Objectively. Professionally. Legally.
He had once fixed a pipe that had somehow grown roots. Actual roots, thin and pale and determined, like the plumbing had ambitions of becoming a tree. He had repaired a shower that screamed when the hot water turned on. He'd opened a washing machine and found, among other things, a fork, two marbles, a sock, and — mysteriously, for reasons the owner had refused to elaborate on — a laminated photograph of a duck.
So yes. Worse existed.
This sink, however.
Ivan stared at the cabinet. The cabinet stared back. Water seeped slowly from the seams with smug determination. He blinked once, slow and thoughtful, water still clinging to the edge of his jaw and his chin from the last spray. The pipe inside rattled faintly, not from pressure alone but from age — metal fatigue, worn threading, an installation angle that suggested either haste or resentment from whoever has assembled it.
This wasn't just broken. This was deeply, horrifically, neglected. Abandoned by God and the landlord.
And now he was knee-deep in water that smelled like rust and eggs.
Behind him, Till snorted.
Ivan straightened slightly, wiping water from his face with the back of his wrist. He could feel Till watching him. Not casually. Definitely not politely. Intensely. Like he was a suspicious cat evaluating whether or not Ivan was a threat.
Ivan was used to being watched. Clients watched all the time. Supervisors watched. Elderly women especially watched.
This was different. This tracked the movement of his hands as he reached into the toolbox. Followed the flex of his wrist when he hovered over equipment. Settled on him like attention with intent.
Ivan did not know what to do with that information. So he picked up a wrench instead.
Be normal. Be casual.
"So," Till said suddenly.
Ivan adjusted the wrench's grip in his palm, testing its weight. "Yes?"
"Do you usually open with that line?"
Ivan glanced back over his shoulder. Till was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed like he'd been born doing it, posture casual but precise. Hair still damp, clinging slightly at the ends. Shirt still slipping off one shoulder. Socks audibly squishing when he shifted his weight.
His expression was suspicious. Curious, if Ivan squinted. Maybe amused.
"...Which line?" Ivan asked.
"The 'that's broken' one."
Ivan shrugged. "It was accurate."
Till's mouth twitched.
Ivan turned back to the cabinet before he could analyse why that felt like a victory.
He opened the door again, this time keeping his wrist braced for resistance. Water shot out anyway, directly into his collar, soaking the fabric. It ran cold down the back of his neck.
He shut it again. Behind him, the sound of a poorly-concealed, traitorous laugh bounced off the walls.
Ivan narrowed his eyes at the cabinet.
Till cleared his throat. "You handled that well."
Ivan dug around in his toolbox. "I've had practice."
"With water assault?"
"Yes."
He heard Till shift again, socks squeaking. "Should I be concerned or impressed?"
Ivan paused. He shrugged again.
"Both is fine."
He could feel Till smiling without looking.
He crouched once more and reopened the cabinet, this time angling his shoulder to block the spray while he leaned inside. The pipe inside rattled ominously, like it was considering shooting him again. The shutoff valve looked older than it should have been. The coupling joint was misaligned. The pressure was wrong. The angle was wrong. The sealant was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
Ivan stared at the assembly for a long second. Internally, he sighed.
This was going to take hours.
"Is it fixable?" Till asked suddenly, voice closer now.
Ivan tightened his grip on the wrench. "Should be."
Till paused. "Are you lying to comfort me?"
"No."
"...Okay. Good. Because if you were I'd respect it. But I'd also never trust CityFix again."
Ivan nodded. "Reasonable."
He reached in, twisting the valve. The pipe coughed.
A bolt somewhere inside the wall dropped off with a loud, echoing clang.
Behind him, Till whispered. "That didn't sound promising."
Ivan stared into the cabinet, briefly resisting the urge to crawl inside and die along with the concept of running water.
All day, he thought. This was an all-day. The kind of job where solving one thing revealed three more waiting underneath. He could feel it already. Not just in the hardware, but in the structure of the problem itself.
"It's fine," Ivan said calmly, because that was what professionals did while standing in swamp water. He reached deeper into the cabinet, water dripping steadily onto his sleeve.
Behind him, fabric rustled.
"You want a towel?"
Ivan blinked and glanced back.
Till was holding out a dish towel like it was an offering to a wild animal. His brows were slightly knit, a small crease appearing between them. Concern trying not to look like concern.
Ivan stared at the towel. It was purple. Embroidered. With pink flowers.
He looked at Till. Then at the towel.
"...Yes," he said carefully. "Thank you."
Till stepped closer and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed — brief, barely contact. Accidental, technically.
Still. Ivan's brain blue-screened.
He turned back to the sink immediately and wiped his hands with aggressive concentration, like the towel required his full emotional attention.
Till cleared his throat. "Sorry. That's uh. Not mine. It's my roommate's. He likes flowers."
"The one with the hair?" Ivan muttered, glancing sideways, watching Till out of the corner of his eye. His cheeks went pink. Ivan tried not to smile.
"Yes. That one. He likes flowers and hair products."
Ivan hummed thoughtfully.
The silence that followed was softer than the others. Ivan leaned back under the sink and adjusted the wrench again. The pipe rattled faintly when he touched it, old metal complaining about being asked to cooperate.
Down the hallway, a door slammed abruptly. Footsteps followed — heavy, fast footsteps. A voice called out, loud and hoarse with sleep.
"WHY DOES IT SOUND LIKE THE KITCHEN IS DYING?"
Ivan stilled instinctively. Behind him, Till closed his eyes.
"..That," he said under his breath, "would be the roommate."
The footsteps grew louder, approaching with purpose. A moment later, a figure appeared in the doorway — tall, disheveled, blonde hair sticking out in every direction like it had personally fought gravity and won, dressed in a robe that looked like it had seen better days.
He blinked at the scene.
Water on the floor. Ivan crouched halfway under the sink. Till standing nearby like this was a normal morning occurrence.
"...Why is there a man under our sink?"
"He's fixing it," Till said immediately.
The roommate squinted his eyes at Ivan. Then, slowly, he leaned closer to Till, voice dropping to a whisper that was absolutely not a whisper at all.
"He's from CityFix?"
"Yes," Till whispered back. At full volume.
"HE'S from CityFix?"
"Yes!"
"Did the rest of them finally die off?"
"I don't know, he just showed up!"
Ivan pretended to focus very intently on a bolt.
"...Are we sure he's not stealing it?" the roommate continued.
"I considered that," Till confirmed. "But he brought his own tools. That suggests professionalism."
The roommate nodded slowly. "That's fair."
He looked back at Ivan. "...You look trustworthy."
Ivan inclined his head from beneath the sink "I am. And, just for for the record — I can hear you."
The roommate held up a hand, dramatically silencing him.
"Okay," he said finally. "Carry on."
He turned abruptly, dressing gown swishing with cinematic flair — hard enough to nearly take Till out on the way. Then, his voice echoed faintly down the hall.
"IF HE MURDERS YOU I'M CALLING THE LANDLORD."
"TELL HIM TO FIX THE HEATING WHILE YOU'RE AT IT," Till shouted back.
The silence returned.
"He's not a morning person," Till added. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
Ivan nodded. "Noted."
He reached for the pipe again. Ivan tightened the wrench. The joint shifted half a millimetre.
Progress.
"So," Till said more quietly, stepping closer. "How long is this gonna take?"
Ivan tested the resistance again.
"Several hours," he said. "Possibly most of the day."
He expected frustration. Or panic. Maybe even bargaining. Instead, when he glanced back, he found Till thinking — actually thinking, head tilted, eyes slightly narrowed, as if rearranging invisible pieces on a chessboard only he could see.
"...Okay," he said finally. "That's workable."
Ivan blinked.
"Do you need snacks?" Till asked suddenly.
Ivan studied him. He did not sound like he was joking.
"...Snacks."
"I have emergency crackers," Till added, like that would clarify.
Ivan did not ask what qualified crackers as emergency.
He turned back to the sink instead, resuming tightening the joint, suddenly aware of the soft sounds fluttering behind him. A cabinet opened. Something rustled. A kettle clicked on. The noises were small, ordinary, unhurried. Not the tense silence he was used to on jobs.
"Coffee?" Till asked.
Ivan looked over his shoulder. Till held out a mug, arm extended but body still a careful distance away, like he was calibrating space rather than guessing it.
"Sure."
Till stepped forward and set the mug beside the toolbox instead of handing it directly to him. Ivan glanced at him once more.
"Thank you," he said. Then he turned back to the cabinet, tightening the pipe slowly, listening to the old metal settle. He adjusted his grip.
Half his mind mapped the plumbing system and the likely cascade of repairs. The other half was acutely, inconveniently aware of the man behind him drinking coffee and pretending not to watch him work.
Ivan smiled to himself. He lifted the wrench and unscrewed a bolt that definitely did not need unscrewing.
Yeah. If Ivan had anything to say about it, this would absolutely take all day.
Till
Till told himself he was being normal about this.
Normal people hovered when a stranger dismantled the structural integrity of their kitchen. Normal people offered coffee and emergency crackers and then pretended they weren't watching the stranger's forearms flex every time he tightened a joint. Normal people did not, under any circumstances, memories the way a drop of water tracked from someone's jaw to their collarbone and then feel so personally affected by it they nearly fell off the couch where they were pretending to watch TV.
He was being normal.
Which was why, approximately three hours and forty-seven minutes later — when Ivan had shut off the main valve and the sink had finally downgraded from banshee to resentful dripping — Till absolutely did not panic when a door down the hallway slammed again and Luka — his roommate — appeared in the shadows like an omen.
His hair was now semi-decent. His robe had been discarded, replaced with a too-fluffy, too-big blanket draped across his shoulders like a cape, which, Till realised with horror, was the custom one Luka had gifted himself last Christmas. Printed across the back of it were both their faces dressed as minions for Halloween.
He cursed beneath his breath.
Luka took one look at the dismantled cabinet, the exposed pipe, the collection of tools fanned neatly across the tile, and Ivan kneeling with measured focus. Then he looked at Till.
"Why does this look like surgery?" Luka demanded, dragging a hand through his hair. "Why is there metal on the floor? Why is the cabinet open like that? Why is he—" he gestured vaguely at Ivan, "—so calm?"
"It's under control," Till said quickly, which would have been more convincing if Luka hadn't been standing barefoot in a shallow crescent of water with his pants rolled unevenly to mid-calf.
Ivan, to his credit, did not flinch at Luka's volume. He simply extended one hand behind him without looking. "Towel," he said, tone even.
Till blinked. "Oh. Right. Yes. Towel."
He scrambled for the dish towel again — the traitorous, flowered dish towel — and passed it over. This time their fingers didn't just brush; Ivan's knuckles slide along the inside of Till's wrist as he adjusted his grip, skin cool from the water. It lasted less than a second.
It felt like someone had tapped an electric wire directly to Till's pulse.
Ivan stilled almost imperceptibly.
Luka squinted between them. "Did the sink just shock you?"
"No," Till and Ivan said at the same time. They glanced at each other. Immediately looked away.
"...That was weird," Luka muttered.
"It's plumbing," Ivan said calmly, though he cleared his throat once before ducking back under the cabinet. "I need the adjustable wrench."
"It's literally in your hand," Luka said. Then he leaned closer to Till, whispering again. "Are you sure he's not stealing the sink?"
Till rolled his eyes.
"The other one," Ivan muttered.
Till, determined to be useful and not at all motivated by proximity, stood from the couch and crouched beside the toolbox. He sifted through the neat arrangement of metal and rubber and chrome like they were sacred artefacts rather than hardware. He found the wrench and turned to hand it over.
Ivan looked up at the exact same moment. Till held out the wrench. Ivan reached for it. Their fingers overlapped awkwardly around the handle. Till’s thumb pressed against Ivan’s palm — Ivan’s grip tightened reflexively.
For a ridiculous, malfunctioning heartbeat, neither of them let go.
They stared at each other.
Ivan’s lashes were still damp at the tips, a faint crease between his brows from concentration that hadn’t fully smoothed out. Till became acutely aware that he was crouching too close, that his knee was practically touching Ivan’s thigh, that he could smell clean soap and something metallic and sharp that clung to him like the city did.
“Thanks,” Ivan said, but it came out slightly lower than before, like the word had weight.
“Yeah,” Till replied, equally eloquent.
Neither moved.
Luka made a loud, theatrical gagging noise.
Both of them dropped the wrench.
It clattered against the tile with a noise that felt louder than it had any right to be.
“I’m surrounded by incompetence,” Luka announced. “I’m going back to bed. If the apartment explodes, text me first so I can emotionally prepare.”
“YOU LIVE HERE,” Till snapped, but Luka was already retreating down the hall, muttering about insurance.
Silence crept back in, softer this time. Ivan picked up the wrench. Till pretended to examine the cabinet hinge like he had any idea what a hinge did beyond hinge.
“Sorry,” Till said finally, because he couldn’t stand the quiet stretching between them. “He thinks everything is either a murder or a rom-com.”
Ivan’s mouth twitched. “Which is this?”
Till’s brain briefly left his body.
“…Plumbing,” he blurted, with conviction he did not feel.
Ivan hummed as if considering that answer and then angled himself deeper under the sink.
“I’ll need you to hold this steady,” he added after a moment, gesturing to the loosened pipe.
Till blinked. “Me?”
“Yes. Just brace it here.” Ivan shifted, guiding Till’s hand into place against the metal. His fingers closed around Till’s briefly to position them correctly — firm, precise, warm now instead of cool. “Like that.”
Till forgot how joints worked.
He was suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the faint vibration of the pipe under his palm, the brush of Ivan’s sleeve against his forearm, the way their shoulders nearly touched in the cramped space. He could see the concentration settle over Ivan’s features as he tightened the coupling, jaw set, movements efficient.
There was something unfairly attractive about competence. It felt illegal.
“Okay,” Ivan murmured. “On three, I’m going to twist. Don’t let it shift.”
“I won’t,” Till said, far too quickly.
“One.”
Till’s grip tightened.
“Two.”
Their knees knocked.
“Three.”
Ivan twisted. The pipe resisted, then gave with a sharp metallic groan. Water sputtered angrily. Both of them froze, listening.
Ivan leaned back slowly, assessing the joint. He reached up to turn the tap experimentally.
Water flowed. Smooth. Controlled. Blessedly boring.
Till stared at the stream.
“That’s…” He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Ivan shut the tap off and finally looked at him fully, a small, actual smile pulling at the corner of his mouth this time. “It’s a sink.”
“A functional sink,” Till corrected reverently.
They were still kneeling too close. Still within that strange, charged bubble that had nothing to do with plumbing. Till suddenly felt far too aware for comfort of his own hand still resting near Ivan’s, their fingers almost touching again.
He pulled back abruptly and stood, brushing off his jeans. “Right. Great. Uh. Good work."
Ivan rose more slowly, wiping his hands on the purple towel before setting it down with careful precision.
“I’ll write up the repair,” he said. “The valve was misaligned and the pressure built up. It might need a follow-up check in a week or two, just to be safe.”
“A follow-up,” Till repeated, like the phrase was casual and not a golden opportunity descending from the heavens.
Ivan nodded. "For safety."
“Safety is important," Till murmured.
Ivan nodded again, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Very.”
Till walked him to the door, trying not to feel ridiculous about the sudden awareness that this moment was ending. That Ivan would leave. That the apartment would go back to being just an apartment instead of… whatever this had been.
At the threshold, Ivan paused.
“If anything else starts acting up,” he said, adjusting the strap of his toolbox, “call CityFix. Reference the same job ticket. It’ll probably get routed back to me.”
Probably.
Till latched onto that word with feral intensity.
“Oh, I’m sure something will act up,” he said lightly. “This place is… unstable.”
Ivan’s gaze lingered on him for half a second longer than necessary. “Try not to flood it again.”
“No promises.”
The corner of Ivan’s mouth lifted. Then he stepped out into the hallway.
Till closed the door gently and stood there for a long moment, staring at the wood like it might offer insight. He looked toward the kitchen.
The sink sat there, quiet, innocent. Fixed. He pulled his phone out and opened his contacts, thumb hovering.
He did not have Ivan’s number.
But he did have the CityFix sticker on the fridge. And now he had a job reference.
Till glanced back at the perfectly functional tap.
Then at the slightly loose cabinet hinge that maybe, possibly, sounded suspicious if you listened hard enough.
Then at the way the handle on the freezer sometimes stuck if you didn’t pull it just right.
“…Safety is important,” he murmured to himself. He took a step toward it, glancing over his shoulder, down the hall. Then left and right, like he was checking for witnesses.
Luka's voice drifted from down the hall. "If you break something on purpose, I'm telling him."
Till smiled faintly at the freezer.
"I would never," he said, already opening the CityFix website.