Page 10 of Loco

Her next attempt at homeownership domination involved changing a light fixture. I could hear the YouTube video narrating the process step-by-step, its overly cheerful host blissfully unaware of the potential disaster unfolding. Sayla had a cute but completely impractical tool belt strapped around her waist—probably more for aesthetics than actual function—and her tongue poked out in concentration as she worked.

Then the power went out. All of it. The entire house plunged into darkness like a scene from a low-budget horror film.

I sighed and knocked on her front door, ignoring the muffled cursing from inside as I did it again, just to be annoying. Because really, what were neighbors for, if not mild torment?

“Sayla,” I called through the wood separating us, my voice brimming with unrestrained amusement. “Tell me you didn’t just knock out your own electricity.”

A loud groan came through the door. It was the kind that told me Sayla was seriously considering pretending she wasn’t home—even though we both knew she was standing two feet away, probably glaring daggers at the door.

There was no way she was answering it.

Another knock, this time with extra enthusiasm. “Do I need to check your breaker box?”

“Go home, Roque,” she called, her voice closer now. I smirked, picturing her forehead pressed against the door as she silently wished me out of existence.

I gave it five seconds before deciding she had no say in this. I wasn’t about to let her sit in the dark all night out of sheer stubbornness.

So, naturally, I walked around the side of her house.

“You better not be—” she started, but it was too late.

The distinct click of the breaker flipping echoed through the night, and suddenly, the entire house powered back on like I’d just performed some electrical miracle. I did double-check that the circuit she was working on was still off—because, despite my general amusement at this whole situation, I wasn’t about to let her set her house on fire or electrocute herself.

When I got back to the front door, it was yanked open with the force of someone ready to launch into a TED Talk on personal boundaries.

“That’s cheating,” she snapped, eyes narrowed.

I shrugged. “That’s common sense.”

She glared. I smirked.

This wasn’t over.

Sayla

The next day, determined to reclaim some sense of competence, I tackled the under-the-sink leak like a boss. Armed with a wrench, a dangerously optimistic attitude, and a YouTube tutorial that made the whole process look insultingly easy, I wedged myself into the cramped cabinet space. And then I went to war with a pipe that had no interest in cooperating.

Just as I finally managed to get a grip, disaster struck. My shirt snagged on a pipe, locking me in place like some unfortunate human Tetris piece. Before I could process my predicament, my front door creaked open like the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate me further.

“Sayla?”

Oh, for the love of?—

“I’m busy,” I called, my voice muffled by the sheer weight of my impending embarrassment.

A brief silence followed before I heard footsteps.

“Are you stuck?” Roque’s voice carried an unmistakable edge of amusement, the kind that made my jaw tighten with immediate irritation.

“No,” I lied, which would have been far more convincing if I hadn’t been immobilized by my plumbing.

He made a sound—one hundred percent a laugh, even if he tried to stifle it.

“I can get out,” I insisted, yanking my arm in a move that was meant to be triumphant but instead resulted in the entire cabinet rattling ominously while I remained firmly trapped.

Silence stretched between us, thick with his barely contained amusement, before he let out a low chuckle.

“I swear to everything holy,” I warned, voice laced with impending murder, “if you take a picture, I will end you.”

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