I want to melt into the floor and disappear into the earth's core where no one can see me like this. I'm a disaster. A walking, talking advertisement for why people like me shouldn't be allowed to run things without supervision.
"Just peachy," I manage, trying to scoop kibble back into the bag with my bare hands. "Living the dream over here."
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over that distractingly perfect chest, and just... watches me. Like I'm entertainment. Like my suffering is amusing.
"Need help?"
"Nope. I told you on the phone. I've got it under control." Another handful of kibble escapes my grasp. "Totally under control."
His lips twitch. "I can see that."
Smug bastard.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" I snap, finally getting the last of the kibble secured. "Practice or... or whatever it is hockey players do in their spare time?"
"Practice was this morning." He pushes off the wall, and I swear the man moves like liquid mercury. All fluid grace and contained power. "Thought I'd swing by. See if you needed anything."
"I told you on the phone—"
"You told me you had it handled." His eyes scan the chaos around us—overturned water bowls, the rainbow poop situation, the distant sound of our goat roommate apparently eating something expensive. "This is you having it handled?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "Everyone has off days."
"Mia." His voice softens, and that's somehow worse than the teasing. "When's the last time you took a break?"
"I don't need a break. I need a functioning air conditioning system and a vet who doesn't cancel last minute. And maybe a fairy godmother who specializes in animal waste management."
He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne.Goddammit.
"Let me help."
"I don't need—"
But he's already grabbing the broom from the supply closet like he owns the place. Like he belongs here.
"Ryder, don't! That broom is—"
SNAP.
The broom handle breaks in half in his hands. He stares at the pieces, a look of horror on his face.
"Well," I say, trying not to laugh. "That's helpful."
"Don't worry. I'll buy you a new one," he mutters, looking genuinely apologetic. "A better one. Industrial strength."
"It's fine. Just... maybe don't touch anything else?"
But he's already spotted the broken AC unit, that helpful gleam in his eyes that means trouble.
Some things never change.
Back in high school, Ryder was always eager to help. Fixing my bike chain, building that rickety birdhouse in the trails behind my house, attempting to rewire my desk lamp.
He's always been like this. Sweet, earnest, and absolutelyhopelesswith his hands.
But despite all of this, his eager determination was adorably catastrophic every single time. And as it turns out… it still is.
He runs his hands around the outside of the AC unit. "Oh yeah. I can fix that. Easy peasey."
