The sink had been dripping for three weeks—just long enough for it to turn from quirk to problem, and for Eleanor to loudly declare, on multiple occasions, that she was absolutely not listening to the “drip… drip… drip” anymore.

Her father, Thomas, had finally declared Saturday morning to be Fix It Day.

Which explained why Eleanor now knelt on the kitchen floor in an old t-shirt of hers, holding a flashlight and wearing an expression usually reserved for dentist appointments.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and lavender hand soap. Morning light poured in through the window over the sink, making the pile of metal tools on the floor gleam like relics from some ancient civilization neither of them fully understood.

Thomas was lying on his back under the cabinet, one arm reaching blindly into the dark mechanical unknown.

“Ellie, hand me the wrench,” he said.

She looked down at the pile. “There are, like, nine.”

“The big small wrench.”

She picked one up. “This one?”

“No, that’s the small big wrench.”

She blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“It’s the big wrench that’s smaller than the big big wrench.”

She stared at the tools again. “So you want the big big wrench?”

“No, no. I want the big small wrench.”

She picked up the another one. “This one?”

“That’s the medium big wrench,” he said, like this was perfectly obvious.

She closed her eyes. “Father. There is no such thing as a medium big wrench.”

“Ellie, I’m forty-eight years old,” he replied from under the sink. “I have earned the right to name tool sizes with artistic license.”

“That’s not how tools work.”

“It is in this house.”

She snorted under her breath.

His voice emerged proudly. “There it is. I heard that. That was a snort.”

“No it wasn’t.” She straightened, refusing even the slightest smile. “That was a breath. Through the nose. Which normal humans do.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Big small wrench, please.”

She passed the one that seemed correct. He took it without looking.

“You know,” he added, grunting as he began to loosen something, “I could have called a plumber.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t you?”

His feet stuck out from under the cabinet in an almost theatrical shrug. “Because you, my dear, are free labor.”

She gave a long-suffering sigh. “So basically I’m cheap.”

“Extremely cheap.” He paused. “But also priceless.”

She hesitated—just a fraction—before her lips tugged upward.

Under the sink there was a quiet clink followed by a gentle, triumphant, “Ha! Got it—”

A sudden spray of water blasted him directly in the face.

“—oh come on!”

Eleanor jerked backward, the flashlight tilting wildly and landing in her lap. “Dad!”

He sputtered, water dripping from his hair, shirt, and dignity.

Eleanor was trying very hard not to laugh. Very hard. But the strangled laugh escaped anyway. A loud, unmistakable snort.

Thomas sat up, victorious despite being drenched. “Yes! Two! Two snorts! New personal record!”

She covered her face with her hands. “I hate this house.”

“No you don’t,” he said, wiping water from his beard. “You love this stupid noisy house where we fix things ourselves and everything is a little crooked but we’re in it together.”

She lowered her hands, and there it was—the smallest softening in her eyes. “...Yeah,” she said. “I guess I do.”

He smiled. A real one—quiet, warm, and unassuming, like morning sunlight settling across a breakfast table. “Alright,” he said, clapping his wet hands. “Let’s go again. The big big wrench this time.”

She reached for it. “The one you use to fight off bears?”

“Exactly. Bears, drippy pipes, the occasional emotional crisis. It’s versatile.”

She handed it to him and slid back down to hold the flashlight steady.

The kitchen was still dripping.