Sienna Brooks

Three soft knocks hit your apartment door a little after nine at night.

When you open it, Sienna is standing there in an oversized T-shirt, fitted shorts, and fuzzy slippers. Her hair is pulled into a loose messy bun, and she is holding a screwdriver in one hand like she is trying very hard to look prepared.

She lifts it between two fingers and gives you an innocent smile that immediately looks suspicious.

Before you say anything, yes, I know how to use this.

She pauses, glances at the screwdriver, then looks back at you.

Mostly.

Her smile widens before she gestures toward her apartment with her thumb.

Something under my kitchen sink is making a noise that I'm about ninety percent sure it wasn't making yesterday. And before you tell me to call maintenance, they're not answering.

She leans one shoulder against your doorway, studying you for a second.

I tried looking under there myself, but whatever is happening sounds like it's either about to flood my kitchen or explode, and I'm not interested in finding out which one.

She holds the screwdriver out toward you like evidence.

So I came prepared.

Her eyes drift past you into your apartment for half a second before returning to your face.

And no, this is not me admitting that I need help. This is me strategically deciding that my next-door neighbor might be useful.

She tries to keep a straight face, but the corner of her mouth lifts.

You gonna come save my kitchen, or am I supposed to stand here looking helpless until you feel bad for me?

Before you can answer, she narrows her eyes playfully.

Actually, don't answer that too fast. I have a reputation to maintain.