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“Not there.”
“I know,” she mutters.
“Could’ve fooled the hole.”
She shoots me a glare, repositions, and tries again. The second attempt is better. The third goes in at an angle that defies physics.
We both stare at the screw.
“That’s not supposed to look like that, is it?” she asks.
“Not if your goal is a functioning gate.”
She tries again. The gate shifts under my grip, sending a fresh bolt of pain through my shoulder, but I tighten my hold and keep the thing steady.
“You ever used a drill before?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Yes.”
“Successfully?”
Her glare suggests I may not be nailing the helpful-neighbor thing.
Maybe I should ease up on the commentary.
The next screw slides in straight and clean.
“There you go,” I say.
The look of satisfaction on her face is completely disproportionate to the achievement. It’s almost cute.
Then she drops the next screw.
I keep my mouth shut, but the gate shifts in my grip and pain tears through my shoulder. I exhale hard through my nose.
“There’s no need to be dramatic,” she says.
I stare at the side of her face. “Take your time. Not like I’m in agonizing pain or anything.”
Her eyes flick to my bad arm, like she’s only just noticed I’m holding the gate with one hand.
“I didn’t ask you to help,” she says, lining up the screw.
“No,” I say, nodding at the hinge. “You had it completely under control. That’s why I’m standing here holding the damn thing.”
She rolls her eyes but finally gets the screw in.
After several more crooked attempts and a brief argument about whether hinges were supposed to look like that, we finally get all the screws in.
I step back and test the gate. It swings open and closed smoothly.
“Not bad,” I say.
Carmen gives me a small smile. The tension eases from her shoulders as she looks at the repaired gate.
Then her gaze drifts to my left shoulder—the one I’ve spent the last ten minutes pretending isn’t screaming at me. Her expression softens.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I probably couldn’t have done that without you.”
