The radiator sounds like a cat being stepped on. Slowly. Repeatedly. I've been ignoring it for three days, which is my general approach to problems I don't understand, but this morning it added a new note to its dying-accordion repertoire—something between a wheeze and a whistle—and I broke down and texted Todd.

Radiator making sounds. Bad sounds. Can you look at it?

His response, twelve minutes later: After lunch.

That's Todd. No greeting. No sign-off. Just the information I need and nothing else.

He shows up at 1:15 with his toolbox, and I open the door already apologizing. "Sorry, I know it's probably something simple, I just—I don't know anything about radiators, I grew up with central heat, and I googled it but the internet said it could be air in the lines or sediment buildup or a failing valve and I didn't know which one was—"

"Rena."

I stop.

"I'll look at it," he says. And that's that.

The apartment is small, which means Todd in it makes it smaller. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes the walls feel closer, the afternoon light warmer, the whole space more inhabited. He crouches by the radiator while I stand in the kitchen, which is four steps away, because everything in a studio is four steps away, and I ask if he wants coffee and he says sure.

I pull out the pour-over setup. Guatemalan. The chocolatey one that feels like a blanket in a cup. I take my time with it—heating the water to 205, blooming the grounds, pouring in slow circles—because he's taking his time with the radiator, and there's nowhere either of us needs to be. The dying-accordion sound stops halfway through my pour, and when I glance over he's still crouched there, checking things, adjusting things. I don't know what things. I don't ask.

I bring him the coffee. He takes it with one hand, still crouched, and I notice his fingers are calloused in a way that means he uses them for real work. Building things. Fixing things. Making broken things not-broken.

"Thanks," he says.

"Thanks," I say back, which makes no sense, but he doesn't point that out.

Mabel's head appears from under the bed, which is unusual. Mabel does not appear for strangers. Mabel barely appears for me, and I feed her. But there she is—orange face, suspicious eyes—watching Todd like she's trying to figure out what category he belongs in. He glances at her, nods once, like they've reached an understanding. She doesn't retreat.

I sit in the cozy chair with my own cup and watch them both—the man fixing my radiator, the cat who doesn't trust anyone, the light coming through the window at that angle that makes St. Francis Memorial look almost soft. Nobody's talking, and I'm not filling the silence, which is unusual too. Twenty minutes pass, maybe thirty. I lose track in a way I never lose track—I'm usually counting the seconds, measuring the space between words, worrying about whether the quiet is comfortable or awkward or my fault somehow. But Todd's just there, working, drinking his coffee, existing in my space like he belongs in it. And I'm just here, drinking mine, watching the light move, not thinking about what I should say or do or be.

Present. That's the word. I'm present.

He stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, looks at the radiator like he's confirming something, then looks at me.

"Should be fine now. Let me know if it starts again."

"I will. Thank you. Really."

"It's just air," he says, but he says it like that's not all he's talking about. Or maybe I'm imagining that. I'm probably imagining that.

He picks up his toolbox and pauses at the door. Something almost happens—a word, a look, something that sits in the space between us, heavy and warm and unspoken.

"See you," he says.

"See you," I say.

The door closes.

I stay in the chair. Mabel comes out from under the bed—fully out, which she almost never does when someone's been here—and jumps onto the arm of the cozy chair. She doesn't quite touch me, but she's there. I'm still holding my coffee cup, and I realize I've been holding it for twenty minutes without spilling, without fidgeting, without knocking a single thing over.

Come to me, all you who are weary.

I don't know where the verse comes from—it just surfaces, the way things do when you're finally still enough to hear them. And I will give you rest. Not the rest of doing nothing. The rest of being with someone who doesn't need you to perform. Who fixes your radiator and drinks your coffee and nods at your cat like she's a person. Who says "see you" and means something more, or maybe doesn't, but either way makes the chaos go quiet just by being there.

The radiator is silent now. So am I.

And for once, that's enough.