Chapter 39: The Drip and the Fix

Harper woke Tuesday morning in the penthouse master suite, the soft gray light of dawn seeping through the navy curtains, her body tangled in silk sheets beside Zane Carver. The air carried a faint musk of last night's chaos—his hands pressing her to the window, glass fogging as he thrust into her, her screams lost in the city's hum, their love etched in streaks against the pane. Her muscles felt loose now, a gentle ache from their Monday fire, but the quiet was shattered by a new sound—not rain, not jazz, but a steady drip-drip-drip from somewhere beyond the bedroom, a discordant note in their cocoon.His arm rested across her waist, lighter than usual, his chest a steady wall against her back, his breath slow and even against her neck—a presence that grounded her despite the oddity creeping into her senses. She shifted, the silk sliding against her bare skin—cool, smooth, whispering against the fading bruises he'd left—and his hand tightened briefly, a reflex of possession even in sleep, before relaxing again. The clock glowed 6:03 a.m., earlier than their usual stir, and she frowned, her ears straining toward that persistent drip, a puzzle tugging her from the haze of sleep.He stirred, his lips brushing her shoulder—soft, absent, a sleepy gesture that sent a shiver down her spine, prickling her skin with a quiet warmth. "Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, thick and low, rolling over her like a gentle tide as he cracked his gray eyes open, glinting with a softness that sharpened into alertness as he caught her frown. "What's that face?""Listen," she replied, her voice husky, sitting up—the silk falling away to bare her torso, her skin prickling in the cool air as she tilted her head, pinpointing the sound—drip-drip-drip—steady, insistent, coming from the ensuite. His brow furrowed, and he rolled out of bed—naked, sculpted, his back scratched from her nails—a sight that made her pulse flicker despite the moment, a reminder of their heat banked but ever-present.He padded to the bathroom—his bare feet silent on the hardwood, the door creaking as he pushed it open—and cursed, low and sharp. "Fuck—leak." She followed, grabbing a robe—soft gray cotton, his, too big but hers now—tying it loose as she joined him, the black marble floor cold under her toes, a thin sheen of water pooling near the shower, dripping from a seam in the ceiling, a slow, relentless bead that splattered onto the tiles."Shit," she muttered, her hands on her hips, staring up at the faint stain spreading across the plaster—dark, wet, a blemish in their perfect space. "Plumbing?""Looks like it." He crouched, inspecting the puddle—his fingers brushing the water, testing its spread—then stood, his jaw tight, his smirk gone, replaced by a practical edge she rarely saw. "Upstairs—neighbor's pipe, maybe. I'll call maintenance.""Today?" Her voice edged up—irritation flickering, the day's calm slipping away—and she crossed her arms, the robe slipping off one shoulder, baring the bruise he'd left, a mark that felt heavier now. "Work's slammed—can't deal with this.""Neither can I," he shot back—his voice rough, crossing to the bedroom—grabbing his phone from the nightstand, his sweats tugged on in a swift pull, leaving his chest bare. "But it's our place—gotta fix it."She exhaled—sharp, unsteady—following him to the living room, the hardwood cool against her feet, the drip a faint echo behind them as he dialed, his tone clipped as he spoke to the building manager—words like urgent, leak, penthouse cutting through the quiet. She sank onto the sectional—legs curling under her, the gray cushions soft against her thighs—watching him pace, his free hand raking through his hair, tousling it further, a tension in his shoulders she hadn't seen since Paris.He hung up—tossing the phone onto the walnut table with a soft thud—his eyes meeting hers, glinting with frustration but softening as he took her in—robe askew, hair mussed, a quiet storm mirroring his own. "They're sending someone—hour, maybe two," he said, his voice low, crossing to sit beside her—his knee nudging hers, a spark that flickered, grounding her despite the chaos. "We wait.""Wait?" She laughed—dry, sharp—shoving at his arm—playful but pointed. "You're shit at waiting, Carver.""So are you," he countered—his smirk flickering back, his hand settling on her knee—warm through the robe, his thumb brushing her skin in idle strokes, a tether in the tension. "Coffee—then we figure it out."She nodded—rising with him, the jazz humming low as he flicked the remote—the kitchen welcoming them with its sleek expanse—matte-black island gleaming, still scarred from their Thursday frenzy. He poured coffee—black for him, cream for her—his hands steady despite the strain, the rich aroma curling into the air, a balm against the morning's glitch. She took her mug—sipping slow, the warmth seeping into her chest—leaning against the counter, her shoulder brushing his, a quiet intimacy in the routine they'd carved out.They drank—silence settling, broken only by the faint drip from the ensuite, a reminder of the imperfection creeping into their space. "This place," she said—her voice low, setting the mug down with a soft clink—"thought it was invincible.""Nothing is," he replied—his voice rough, his hand sliding to her lower back—fingers splaying wide, pressing her closer—his gaze steady, searching. "But it's ours—leaks and all."Her chest tightened—his words sinking in, a truth that stripped her bare—and she leaned into him—her head resting on his shoulder, his warmth seeping through her robe, a comfort that chased the irritation away. "Teamwork, huh?" she murmured—her hand sliding to his chest—feeling his heartbeat thud, steady and strong, a rhythm she'd come to rely on."Always." His smirk softened—his hand lifting to her jaw—tilting her face to his—his thumb brushing her lip, tracing its curve with a tenderness that made her breath catch. "We fix shit together—pipes, fights, whatever."She laughed—quiet, real—her fingers curling into his sweats—a reflex, a claim on him as the morning's glitch faded into perspective. "You're smug about it.""Earned it." He kissed her forehead—soft, lingering—a seal on their pact—his breath warm against her skin, his hand steady on her neck, holding her there. "Grab the mop— maintenance'll handle the rest."She pulled back—smirking, crossing to the closet—grabbing a mop and a bucket, the plastic handle cool in her grip as she returned to the ensuite. He followed—taking the bucket, filling it at the sink—water splashing as they worked—her swiping the mop across the tiles, him wiping the baseboards, their movements syncing in a quiet rhythm, jazz weaving through the air, a backdrop to their task. The puddle shrank—water swirling down the drain, the drip slowing as they stemmed the tide—teamwork in every swipe, every glance, a bond forged in the mundane.By 7:46 a.m., the floor was dry—mop propped against the wall, bucket emptied—and they sank onto the sectional—her legs over his lap, his arm around her shoulders, the gray cushions soft beneath them, the city waking beyond the glass. The drip persisted—fainter now, a whisper of the fix to come—but it didn't matter, not yet. She leaned into him—her head on his chest, his heartbeat a steady thud under her ear, a rhythm that chased the morning's strain away."Fixed it," she said—her voice low, her hand resting on his chest—feeling his warmth through the sweats, grounding her in the quiet. "Well—mostly.""Good enough." His hand slid to her jaw—tilting her face to his—his thumb brushing her cheek—slick with a faint sheen of sweat from their effort—a gentle claim in the calm. "Love you—like this, leaks and all."Her breath hitched—his words simple but heavy—and she turned—meeting his gaze—his face open, unguarded—a man who'd fought for her, who'd mop floors with her at dawn. "Love you too," she whispered—her voice trembling, her hand sliding to his—lacing their fingers, feeling the strength in his grip—a tether in the stillness.They stayed there—tangled on the sectional—the city a muted hum beyond the glass, the penthouse theirs in every creak and drip—her head on his chest, his arm around her, coffee mugs cooling on the table, jazz fading into silence. "Work soon," he murmured—his voice rough—his hand sliding down her back—tracing her spine, a slow exploration that wasn't about heat but presence—a promise held in check."Yeah," she replied—her voice soft—her hand resting on his chest—feeling his heartbeat steady—a rhythm that was hers now, theirs. "After the fix."He laughed—low, warm—a sound that vibrated through her—and they sank deeper into the cushions—the day stretching before them—work, life, the next challenge—but for now, on their sectional, with his hand steady on her skin, she didn't care. The leak had tested them, their bond a steady flame—banked but burning—and it was everything she'd feared and craved.The maintenance crew arrived at 8:12 a.m.—tools clanking, voices muffled as they tackled the ceiling—and Harper and Zane watched from the sidelines, coffee reheated, their quiet intact. The drip stopped—silence returning, the penthouse theirs again—and they shared a look—smirks mirroring, a victory small but real, a testament to the life they'd built, leaks and all.