I had said that.
Two years ago, after a double shift.
Against my will, I smiled.
Over the next week, our messages remained simple.
How is Ethan?
Do you need groceries?
Has the landlord fixed the heater?
Do you still like that terrible lemon tea?
He offered things.
I mostly said no.
He accepted no without turning it into an argument.
Then one rainy afternoon, my heater actually stopped working.
The room grew cold quickly.
I wrapped Ethan in another blanket and called the landlord.
No answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
My thumb hovered over Logan’s name.
I hated that asking him felt like surrender.
Then I looked at Ethan.
Pride was warm in theory.
Not in an unheated apartment.
I typed:
Do you know anything about heaters?
His reply came immediately.
Enough to know when to call someone who knows more.
I laughed.
Then another message:
I can send a repair technician. You don’t have to see me.
