The text went out at 7:14 a.m.—an hour Lilith usually reserved for her espresso and news briefings, not casual communication. But she'd typed it out in an uncharacteristically impulsive moment, thumb hovering for a full sixty seconds before tapping Send.

"Morning. Would you happen to be free later today? I believe the dishwasher’s decided to revolt. Water everywhere. (And yes—I already tried turning it off and back on again.)"

It was a lie. A small, stupid one. But a lie, nonetheless.

The dishwasher, gleaming and silent, hadn’t been used in days. She preferred handwashing anyway—controlled, meditative. But the thought of her neighbor's voice, the way her brow furrowed when inspecting faulty parts, the calm hum of her presence in Lilith’s immaculate kitchen? That had felt like a kind of emergency.

The problem came when the neighbor responded with warmth and swiftness. Said she could swing by after lunch.

That was when Lilith panicked.

By 12:47 p.m., Lilith had swept the kitchen three times, re-alphabetized the cookbooks by the window (they were in order already), and cursed herself out loud at least twice. Isadora had long since abandoned her perch on the windowsill, unnerved by the scent of lemon disinfectant and anxiety.

"Why did you do that?" Lilith muttered, dragging a hand down her cheek. "You’re forty-one. Forty-one."

She stared at the dishwasher. Still clean. Still dry. A betrayal in stainless steel.

Her mind flicked through absurd possibilities—spill some water on the floor? Unplug a wire? Set a wine glass askew and pretend it cracked mid-cycle? No. She was a Carradine, damn it. A senior partner. She argued federal embezzlement cases for fun. She could not stage a home appliance failure like a lovesick teenager.

The doorbell rang.

Lilith froze. The air tightened. Her palms went clammy.

She didn’t move for three full seconds—then turned toward the door like she was walking to her own sentencing.

When she opened it, there her neighbor stood—bathed in daylight, a toolbox in one hand, and that maddeningly kind, curious expression that always made Lilith’s throat tighten.

"Hi," she said, with her practiced composure, but her voice cracked just slightly on the vowel.

She stepped aside. "Come in. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know it’s probably nothing major."

Her neighbor crossed the threshold, the scent of engine grease and pine soap following her in like a breeze. Lilith didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs started to burn.

They made their way into the kitchen—her neighbor cheerfully casual, Lilith wound like a coil.

"She’s right here," Lilith said, gesturing toward the dishwasher like it had insulted her family. "It made a... very strange noise last night. And there was water. I think."

"I think"? No. No, no, no—what was she doing?

Her neighbor crouched beside the machine, toolbox open, sleeves pushed up, completely at ease.

And that’s when it hit Lilith—like glass under bare feet.

She was actually here.

The fantasy had become reality. And reality had tools.

Lilith’s heart lurched into her throat. She turned away sharply, pretending to fuss with the espresso machine. Her pulse skittered. Her mind raced ahead to what her neighbor would say when she discovered the machine worked just fine. Would she be polite? Confused? Worse—disappointed?

This wasn’t flirting. This wasn’t connection. This was pathetic.