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📖 Chapter 6 — When the Pipes Burst and the Heart Opens
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The first thing Mira learned about owning property was that reality was far less charming than the daydream.
Her little building was beautiful on the outside—aged brick with ivy crawling over the balconies, iron railings with delicate curls. It looked like a place that might hold whispered stories, old loves, laughter echoing off the walls.
But step inside, and you found creaking floors, cracked tiles in the bathrooms, wiring that sparked alarmingly if you flipped two switches at once.
The tailor shop on the ground floor needed extensive work before it could ever be rented. The upstairs tenants—two young sisters studying fashion—were polite but wary, their kitchen sink leaking so badly it left constant damp patches on the floor.
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Mira spent hours with contractors, learning the difference between a genuine estimate and a slick sales pitch.
She stood in sawdust in ballet flats (mistake she only made once), hair pulled into a quick bun, scribbling notes in her neat handwriting as older men tried to talk circles around her.
More than once, she walked home feeling small. Like a child wearing her mother's heels.
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It was Adrian who found her in that mood one Thursday evening.
She was sitting on the curb outside the building, elbows braced on her knees, head bowed so her hair fell like a curtain around her face.
He pulled up in his sleek sedan, parked haphazardly across two spots, and joined her without a word. Just lowered himself to the curb, suit trousers brushing the dusty concrete.
For a while they sat in silence.
Then she let out a soft, humorless laugh. "The plumber says it'll cost three times the original quote. And I still have to redo the electrical for the top apartment. I thought I was being so clever—buying a property that only needed 'a little cosmetic work.' Turns out I'm an idiot."
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Adrian's shoulder nudged hers. "You're not an idiot. You're just new to this."
She peeked at him, found his dark eyes warm with quiet admiration.
"Most people in your shoes wouldn't even try. They'd coast on family money forever, never know the taste of something that was theirs alone."
His hand slid over hers, lacing their fingers together against her knee.
"I know it's hard right now. But one day you'll look at this building, with fresh paint and a warm tailor shop buzzing downstairs, and you'll know it only exists that way because of you. No one else."
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Her throat tightened.
"You always make it sound so simple."
He gave a wry little smile. "It's not simple. But it's still worth it. Like most good things."
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The next morning she woke determined.
She put on old jeans and a loose blouse she didn't mind ruining. Tied her hair back, pulled on cheap sneakers that wouldn't cry under dust or paint.
When she walked into the building with two buckets of patch compound balanced awkwardly against her hip, the young sisters upstairs blinked at her in surprise.
"Ms. Song?" one of them stammered.
Mira gave a small, sheepish grin. "Call me Mira, please. And—could you maybe show me the exact spot in your bathroom where the water keeps seeping? I want to see if I can patch it before the next real contractor comes."
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They stared at her. Then broke into shy smiles.
That afternoon they worked side by side. Mira climbed a tiny stepladder and awkwardly spread compound over cracks in the plaster while the sisters fetched extra rags.
By evening the leaks were still there—clearly a deeper problem—but somehow everyone seemed happier just knowing she cared enough to try.
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When she got home, Mira was covered in flecks of white dust, her hair a tangled mess, her shoulders sore from awkward stretching.
She stood under a steaming shower and felt strangely proud.
It wasn't glamorous. But it was real.
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A week later, the sisters left a tiny potted plant outside her apartment door.
"For luck in your new building, from Esha & Noor."
Mira set it on her kitchen counter, eyes misting over.
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Meanwhile, her life with Adrian slipped into a new, delicate balance.
He started showing up on weekends in worn jeans instead of suits, carrying cheap takeout and saying things like, "Point me at a wall, boss, I'll paint it."
They spent hours together in her little building. Mira on the floor with design samples spread around her, Adrian standing on a ladder painting broad, confident strokes that sometimes dripped just to annoy her.
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At lunch, they'd sit cross-legged on the tile, passing cartons of noodles back and forth.
Mira told him about nightmare contractors and learning to haggle for bulk primer. Adrian confessed that he secretly hated some of the fancy industry dinners he was still obligated to attend.
It was the most honest either of them had ever been.
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One afternoon, he glanced around the apartment they were finishing for a new tenant. Light streamed through the cleaned windows, catching tiny motes of dust that made it look almost magical.
"You know," Adrian said softly, "this place feels… hopeful. Like it's waiting for laughter and stories."
She leaned against the doorframe, heart fluttering. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said about my fixer-upper."
He came closer, hands slipping into the back pockets of her jeans, pulling her just slightly off-balance.
"It's not the building I mean, Mira." His forehead rested against hers, voice dropping. "It's you. You're hopeful. Even when you're scared. Even when you're tired."
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She wanted to close that last inch. Wanted to tilt her head and finally let everything crash together.
But old fear still tangled around her ribs.
So instead she just pressed her cheek to his shoulder, breathing him in.
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That night, when she got home, she found a small gift bag by her door. Inside was a heavy-duty toolkit—wrenches, screwdrivers, even a little electric drill.
No note. Just Adrian's way of saying: I believe you can do this.
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🌸
By late autumn, her building truly began to change.
Fresh paint on the stair railings, new lanterns outside that cast warm golden pools on the sidewalk. The sisters' apartment finally had fixed pipes. The old tailor space downstairs was rented by a cheerful woman who specialized in hand-embroidered shawls.
Mira started seeing familiar faces around the neighborhood. The baker from the corner shop waved every morning. Kids from the little park brought paper kites to test how high they'd fly in the street breeze.
It was a world so unlike the polished marble corridors of her childhood.
It felt like belonging.
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Then one chilly evening, Mira walked up to find Adrian waiting on the front stoop.
He had a small bottle of sparkling cider in hand and two paper cups.
"What's this?" she laughed.
"A toast," he said. "To your first quarter as a landlord. And to not going bankrupt."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop smiling.
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They sat together on the cold stone steps, knees bumping. He poured them each a tiny fizzing portion.
Mira lifted her cup. "To broken pipes and surprise tax bills."
He clinked his against hers. "And to you—making something honest and beautiful out of the pieces."
She swallowed hard, warmth flooding her chest.
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They didn't move for a long time. Just watched the street lights blink on, one by one, as the sun sank.
Finally Adrian set his empty cup down and reached for her hand.
"Mira. I know you're still figuring everything out. And I promised I'd wait as long as you needed. I meant it. But—"
His voice cracked.
"I don't want to keep wondering if you're ever going to let yourself be happy with me."
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She stared at their intertwined hands.
Then slowly, carefully, she lifted her eyes to his.
"I'm terrified," she whispered. "Because everything I thought made me lovable is gone. The name, the family position, all of it."
Adrian let out a broken laugh, breath ghosting white in the cold air. "You really still don't get it, do you? I didn't fall for Mira Song the heiress. I fell for the girl who waited with me at my grandfather's funeral. Who snuck hot chocolate to me at boarding school when I was miserable. Who once made me a playlist called 'songs to keep you from going insane.'"
His hand lifted to cup her cheek, thumb brushing over her skin so gently it nearly undid her.
"That's who I'm in love with. That's who I've been waiting for."
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Something inside her cracked open, fragile but brilliant, like glass catching sunlight.
She surged forward, finally closing that impossible inch.
Their lips met—soft at first, tentative, then deeper, all the careful years between them burning away.
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When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Mira let out a tiny, tearful laugh.
"So," she whispered, forehead pressed to his, "do you want to see if this new apartment's heat actually works? Or are we risking hypothermia tonight?"
His answering grin was the happiest thing she'd ever seen.
"Lead the way, Miss Song."