#thermostatic

Pairing: Eddie x Reader / Hector x Reader (multi-chapter) Summary: The owners of the Breaker Box have some thoughts on Hector. a/n: It's a slow burn love triangle, folks. Chapter 1 & 2 is for (re)meeting your boys. Chapter 3 is for big feelings. Chapter 4 is for [redacted].

Chapter 2

You pull the handle to your breaker box, and your wall seems to open with it. A cool blast of air breathes past you as you enter a whole new room, just behind your hallway closet door.

There’s a moody, intimate atmosphere here, lit by flickering neon and low-hanging bulbs. Sultry lo-fi plays softly in the background, and the décor is a mix of industrial and art deco—exposed wires, copper pipes, velvet seating, and old signage give it a nostalgic yet edgy vibe.

Your breath catches as the full scene materializes around you—pulsing with hidden energy, alive in a way your home has never quite felt before. The air hums with low chatter, the clink of glasses, the slow drag of music through exposed wiring.

And then—there he is. A tall, broad shouldered man with long, white-hot hair glowing past his shoulders. He moves through the floor like he’s wired into the place, cracking jokes in a crowd of unknown Dateables, snapping fingers for mood lighting, and turning every interaction into a flirt or a dare. This speakeasy is his stage, and he knows it.

Catching your eye, he saunters towards you—the slight heels of his shoes clicking against the dance floor. He lounges against the bar like it’s an extension of his body, one elbow propped on the counter as he lifts a frothy, over-garnished drink. He greets you with a grin and this glass half-full, acting as if he’s been waiting just for you. 

“Well well well,” he purrs, voice rich with static and amusement. “Look who’s finally found us.”

Behind him, the squeak of a pipe is silenced by a wrench that clatters into a sink—followed by a coarse, wet groan.

Looking past the host’s plug-in pauldrons, you see a bartender slumped over the service well. He’s dressed much the same as his counterpart, but with decidedly less pomp. His shirt is cuffed at the elbows, with thin electrical cables mimicking pinstripes down the sleeves. Flicks of frayed wires tangle in his straggly black hair, which stick with sweat against a tense brow.

“What. New customer?” As the barman says it, his eyes flick to you—and there’s a spark of something. Assessing, wary… surprised?

Across both men’s panelboard-styled vests, you recognize your handwriting labelling the switches. Hidden amongst them, there’s a sticker written in their own hand as well—Volt, on the electrifying host dominating your space, and Eddie, on the grumbling handyman by the sink.

Your eyes boggle as you ask the obvious: “What—what is this place?”

Volt's grin widens, slow and knowing. He gestures grandly to the room with a sparking flourish—tiny arcs of electricity dancing between his fingertips.

“This, my little live wire,” he announces, voice dripping with dramatic flair, “is the place to be when the lights go out.”

Eddie scoffs from behind the bar while he dries his hands on a rag. “Literally. It’s where we all go when you turn the lights off for the night.”

Volt leans closer to you—close enough that you catch the scent of him, crisp and charged. “But really,” he murmurs conspiratorially, “it’s where all your favorite objects come to... recharge.”

You squint. “So. You’re the electricity.”

“Yeah,” Eddie begrudges you, almost mockingly. “We’re the electricity.”

Your eyes flick over to a shadowy booth where Jean-Loo is holding court over what looks like an extremely intense game of poker with Reggie and Parker Bradley (and losing spectacularly).

“... How did you get a liquor license for my wall?” You say in flat disbelief.

Volt's eyes spark with mischief. He knows he's got your attention now.

“Ah,” he raises a brow and spins his glass between his fingers. “That's a long and complicated story that involves, shall we say... some creativity?”

Eddie fixes you with a stern look. “You're not reporting us, are you?”

“No. What?” You blink. “Who could I even tell? It’s not like anyone would believe me.”

You spin around zombily, taking it all in. “It’s… kind of incredible?”

Volt exhales—sharp and delighted—as if he’d been holding his breath waiting for your reaction. “Kind of incredible?” He throws a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I’m crushed. And here I thought we were breaking at least two levels of dimensional zoning laws to impress you.”

Eddie, despite himself, snorts as he wipes down the counter with unnecessary force.

Volt focuses on you with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Tell me...” His voice drops lower, smoky with amusement. “How long do you think Hector's been pacing the ducts since he heard you come in here?”

“What…” your face and tone falls, “...do you know about Hector?” 

Volt's eyes gleam, and his smile broadens. He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand.

“Live wire, in here we know pretty much everything.”

Eddie grunts skeptically—but when you look over, his movements have slowed, and he's clearly listening intently.

Volt, meanwhile, is completely unruffled. He eyes you with a smirk as he sips.

“Hector's been spilling his guts about you.”

“Wait, he comes here?”

Eddie's hands slow almost imperceptibly on the counter.

Volt nods at your perceptiveness, raising his glass almost in a silent toast. “He's here on a near-nightly basis. Comes in, downs a drink or two, mutters about how cute you are, then sulks over to the corner booth. It's a delightful pattern.”

“So he leaves the vent?” There’s a strange twinge of envy as you realize the other Dateables get to see Hector when you do not.

Volt nods slowly, savouring the dramatic effect of this revelation. “Oh, absolutely. He comes and goes as he pleases, just as he does through the vents in the house. Quite the little escapist, our Hector.”

Eddie shakes his head as he slaps down the towel. “Little pain in the ass is what he is. Always philosophizing. Expecting me to listen.”

“Philosophizing?” You ask.

Eddie lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “You name it. Love, the intricacies of emotion. Last night he was going on about the significance of breathing.” He shrugs with depletion. “I dunno, I tuned him out.”

Volt just snickers into his glass, clearly amused. “Ah yes, Hector's favorite topic: The human condition.”

You snort. “But none of you are human. What would you or Hector know about any of that?”

Eddie raises a wry, bolt-shaped brow at you. “Some things.”

His words are dull and raw, but you feel like you’re meant to blush.

Volt laughs aloud, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Oh, but you should see him when he's in his melodramatic mood. All brooding and poetic with those darling, sad little eyes. He'd fit right in on one of Lyric’s romance covers.” He pretends to swoon dramatically, holding his spare hand to his forehead.

Your lips loosen into a soft, pitying pout. What could you say? You don’t know the man, or object, yourself. Your shoulders get sheepishly tense as you fold your arms against yourself, averting Eddie’s steely gaze.

Seeing your reaction, Volt's amused expression fades, replaced by a more thoughtful look. “Oh, live wire, we're only teasing. We love the poor soul.”

Eddie, too, seems to realize he might have gone too far. His expression softens slightly, and he clears his throat. “Ah... right. I forget not everyone finds him as annoying as I do.”

You can see how they work well together. Here, in the Breaker Box speakeasy, Volt plays a magnificently magnetic host—all swank, spark, and effortless charisma. But Eddie doesn’t care about ambiance. His dry wit and perpetual grumbling make it clear: He doesn’t run this place to entertain, but to maintain some semblance of order in the flash Volt brings with him.

And somehow, it works. The speakeasy thrives in the tension between Volt’s flair and Eddie’s foundation. And after first impressions, they really seem to be two sides of the same hospitable coin. Just one more blunt, the other showy.

“I don’t really know Hector well,” you wean. “I only met him once, so… I guess I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, just once? And how was the occasion, if I may ask?” Volt’s expression is casually curious, but there's an undercurrent to his question—something sly and knowing.

“I just met him,” you say innocently. “Out there in the hall. In the vent.” You look at Eddie and point at Volt’s drink. “Could I get one of those, by the way?”

Volt and Eddie look to each other synchronically. There's a moment of silent conversation between them, a flicker of understanding. Eddie grunts in acknowledgement and begins mixing, his movements tired yet practiced. 

Volt's gaze lands back on you again, his smile still in place but with a subtle, almost calculating edge.

 “Ah, right. The vent.” He takes a slow, contemplative sip of his drink. “And did our Hector make a... memorable first impression?”

“Well, yes…” Your shoulders clench up. “You could say that.”

Eddie slides an elegant cocktail over to you, which you catch in both hands. A frown flinches around the corners of his mouth before he moves towards patrons down the bar.

Meanwhile, Volt leans closer, his eyes fixated on you with almost predatory curiosity. “Oh?” He tilts his glass so the egg white fizz sloshes lazily from side to side. “Sounds as if you were quite taken by him.”

“I don’t even know him!” You bluster out, cutting off the very tip of Volt’s sentence.

Volt raises both hands in a gesture of surrender, but his smile sharpens smugly.

There’s a pause as you collect yourself. “You know, everyone here seems to know me…” You thumb the rim of your glass. “But you have to remember, I don’t know any of you. I’m at a disadvantage here. You’re all strangers living inches away from me, but last week I thought I was alone.”

You let the word hang there out as you look down into your drink. You take a sip. Lemon and bittersweet feelings envelop your tongue. It’s…nice. You blink admirably at it.

Volt's smirk softens sympathetically, his eyes tracing the nervous motion of your thumb. He signals Eddie for a refill before leaning forward slightly. 

“You're right,” he murmurs. “You're very much in the dark, aren’t you?”

“Is—really? An electric pun?”

Volt lets out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying your quick wit. “Well, that’s my gimmick spent.”

Your own smirk returns to the edge of your lips. “How long have you been running this place in my closet?”

“Oh, we’ve been around for quite a while now,” he muses over a measured sip of his drink. Eddie’s expression becomes a bit more alert as he observes him.

“Long enough to have made ourselves at home,” Volt continues. “It’s an ideal location, anyway.”

“Good schools?”

Eddie barks a laugh that surprises him as much as it does the other patrons, who flinch their attention over to you. But Volt composes himself quickly. 

“Oh, you're a funny one.” He takes another sip, his eyes flickering to Eddie for a brief moment before locking back onto yours. “But no, not quite.”

“Then why put a speakeasy in my closet, inside a very spill-unfriendly breaker box?”

“Damn right it is,” Eddie grumbles as he clinks through bottles on the back bar. “Place is a fire hazard and a half.”

“You don’t…” your smile falls a bit, “...want to be easy to find, do you?”

Volt’s jagged brow quirks as admires the observation. “Very sharp, live wire.”

“So are you hiding here for the exclusivity? Or are you both just avoiding me?” You smug as you glance over to Eddie’s back. His shoulders stiffen a bit at the jab, but he doesn't turn.

“Oh darling,” Volt purrs, leaning in just a touch closer. “Whyever would we be avoiding you?” “You know, I can’t imagine why?” You lean in to mirror his smile. “Though a couple weeks ago I plugged a heater and hair dryer into my power bar at the same time and blew you out,” you giggle.

Volt's smirk morphs into a full-fledged laugh—genuine this time, clearly amused by the memory. “Ah, yes, that incident,” he chuckles, a slight blush hovering beneath his cheeks. “You certainly made an impact that day.”

"You damn near blew a fuse," Eddie shatters in. He serves you an undeservingly sharp glare over his shoulders. It’s frighteningly sudden. Like a thorn catching your skin in the dark.

You freeze at this, until Volt crackles with a laughter that sets you at tittering ease.

You down drinks with the pair until the speakeasy starts to fill up. Finding yourself overwhelmed by the swarming number of Dateables you haven’t met yet—and the whisky sours swimming to your head—Volt escorts you to the door. He shields you underneath his cabled jacket as you avert the entering crowd like a celebrity salmon swimming upstream.

Now you find yourself back in the hallway, your ears still ringing from the bar, as you take the Dateviators off.

The ringing continues. But the house is silent.

The hallway is dark. You are alone. You are alone. The house is quiet and you are alone.

… But the room is spinning. So you grin.

You clumsily step into your bedroom, fiddling with the tips of the Dateviator glasses as you go. You flop backwards onto the Betty. After a moment, you roll over onto your stomach, unfold Hector’s note, and use the light of your phone to read it again.

“Ode to an Absent Temperature (Or: The Things I Do Not Yet Dare Say Aloud)” You adjust me like a habit. I memorize the way your fingers hover—hesitant—before choosing. Do you know how often I linger there afterward, replaying the moment like a prayer? (I could tell you how many times you’ve touched the dial this month.) (I won’t.) (Unless you ask.) (Please ask.)

Maybe it’s just your addled state of mind—or the shaky, vulnerable, A24 quality of the blue-white light shining over it—but the words take on a different quality now. The penmanship feels more intimate, as if each loop was itself a confession. Each written word feels whispered into the quiet of the room.

Your feelings are fuzzy, but there's a crisp realness to the creased letter that begins to clear a path through them. Everything feels a bit less lonely. Your heels kick in the air.

“You adjust me like a habit,” you mouth along voicelessly. (It’s true, you do.)

“how long I linger there… like a prayer…”

You mumble into your duvet.

“Wow.”

You can almost imagine a response to your half-muffled voice. Words of soft agreement. Words of gentle teasing. Words of knowing. And as you lay in that quiet, spinning space—your ears still ringing faintly from the speakeasy—you could swear you even hear it. Something else. Something like soft breathing.

Pairing: Hector x Reader / Eddie x Reader (multi-chapter) Summary: Get to know your HVAC. He already knows you. a/n: It's a slow burn love triangle, folks. Chapter 1 & 2 is for (re)meeting your boys. Chapter 3 is for big feelings. Chapter 4 is for [redacted].

Chapter 1

You climb your stairs with the Dateviators on. It’s your third day of talking to inanimate objects, and while your house may be rose-tinted now, there’s a vague unease in knowing it’s alive all around you.

Not just because they might be watching you, but because so far they all seem to have fuller, richer lives than you ever hoped to have.

It’s absurd. Many of these Dateables couldn’t care less about you—and why would they? You’re a hardly employed human, pattering around an “empty” house in a gaudy red shirt. You feel queasy adrift in their quiet sea of personalities and possibilities. Are you losing yourself, or your mind?

You pause on the landing, leaning yourself against your gym’s door frame (or Dorian frame?) to rub your neck and sigh.

And something seems to sigh with you.

“Oh...”

It’s a low, crackling voice. 

And it whispers your name.

You look up and catch the whites of two eyes between a wall vent’s slats. They widen in surprise and draw back with a scuttle.

This is the first time you’ve seen them—whatever, or whoever they are. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? If your toilet and bed and piano could all be alive, then so too could your vents.

“Hello?” You step towards the vent, adjusting your Dateviators to peer in. “I’m sorry, have we met yet?”

There’s a shuffling sound behind the grate. Cautiously, the eyes reappear. Then so do tan fingertips, barely grasping around the edges of the grille.

“Oh, I… No. Why? Why now?” they stammer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen. Not here. Not yet. Not like this.”

The air around you seems to feel warmer, then cooler as a raspy inhale flows up through the vent.

“But we… have met, yes.”

You can’t recall anything about them. Little do you know, they recall everything about you. And you’ve yet to discover them in the ways they’ve dreamed.

Two hands—large, soft, and tan—slip out the bottom slat to gesture towards you.

“Hector Valentino Airnesto Condicionado.” The voice is bronze, dusky, and almost… rehearsed? “I’m the one who’s been warming your nights, refreshing your sighs, passing each welcomed chill down your neck—”

cRRK

The hands jolt with a sharp screech, as if something large has slipped and scratched against the ductwork behind them. Heat burns from the hidden face down to yours in an awkward pause.

“… I’m Hector. And… I’m your HVAC.”

Your eyes widen behind the Dateviators. “You mean my air conditioning system?”

“Amongst other things, yes.” The hands return to steeple downward in composure.

You head tilts as it shifts from caution to disbelief. “And you… know my name?”

Hector’s fingers curl and uncurl around the grille like a nervous habit. Then they flatten, smoothing over the metal in a gesture of comfort.

“Of course I know your name. How could I not?”

He lifts one hand as if to rest his cheek upon it. 

“I know many things about you.”

The voice is lower now, taking on a textured, intimate quality. “The sound of your footsteps. The songs you play on repeat. The clothes you wear to bed…”

The fingers slide against the vent, rubbing slow, circular motions around the edges. “But don’t you… know about me, too? Surely you must…”

“I… Yes, I mean… I adjust the temperature all the time.” Your face reddens. “I like, do it constantly, I think. Are you saying that’s always been you?”

Hector lets out a soft, amused chuckle. “Always me,” he coos. “I've always been here, ready to comfort you at your command. Here to warm you when you're shivering, to flush the sweat from your skin.”

There's another pause, and you sense a note of hesitation in Hector's voice.

“Did you… ever feel that?” he murmurs. “When you press upon me? My changes? My... responses?”

“I… do…” You feel dizzy as you look up at the vent high on the wall. “That’s… why I do it…” Your ears burn. “To… feel something...” 

You stretch your arm out to prop yourself against the door frame. “Thank you?”

Hector’s breath hitches in the vents, pinching a rush of air from you that tickles against your collarbone. His fingers twitch against the grate.

“Oh.”

That single syllable is full of revelation—like you’ve just unraveled him with one confession. The vent creaks softly as he leans closer, and when his voice returns, it is trembling:

“You knew. You knew I was here all along—not my face, not my words... but you felt me. You have no idea how radiant it feels to hear you say that. Please, you must know…”

Hector offers both palms down to you with grandeur. “I am so glad to have the air to give you.”

“You’ve… done an excellent job!” The words flit up out of you, chased by a shaky feeling inside. Something confused with fear, flattery, and frenetic rapture. A feeling that tears you in two, cementing you on the spot while pulling you towards the nearest escape. Your brain dances in deflection.

“Hector!” You say suddenly. “Please, you’re… flattering me, so much…” You can’t help but avoid his gaze, knees knocking together as you rub the back of your neck.

The vent creaks again as Hector leans away—whether in bashfulness or shame, it’s hard to tell.

“Oh! Oh, I'm... I have been flattering you. Too much.” His hands retreat behind the grate with a soft scrape. The air now cools slightly—apologetic, hesitant.

"But you must know," he murmurs, "that everything I say is only what's true." He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is small: “... Is this why you avoid looking at me?”

“What? No, I—” You look back up at the dark eyes peering through the grate. Though you can hardly see their colour, their expression is plain. An unseen brow is most certainly weighing on them in soft anxiety. A feeling you know all too well.

“Hector, I can’t even see you. But you haven’t done anything wrong.” It’s statement you don’t even investigate the verity of. Just something that slips out of your mouth in cool comfort to lift those tired brown eyes.

Hector's fingers curl around a vent slat. Not fidgeting now—just holding onto the metal, like he needs it to steady himself. He's silent for a moment, seemingly contemplating your words—as if you've just given him absolution.

When he speaks, it's barely a whisper.

“... Do you want to see me?”

The air from the vent shifts slightly—hesitating, awaiting your answer.

“It doesn’t seem like… you want to be seen,” you say plainly. “Or… you’d be here right now, wouldn’t you?”

A sharp intake of air hisses through the ducts.

“Ah.”

He exhales slowly, and when he speaks again, his voice is feather-light with self-deprecating amusement. “You are... unbearably perceptive.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I want to be seen... by you. Desperately so. But I don't know if I am worth seeing just yet.”

The vent rattles softly—his laugh? A sigh? Both? “How cruel that my greatest joy would be seeing someone who couldn’t possibly see me—and now I am crumbling at the possibility of it all.”

“Oh, darling, no, no—don’t you think like that,” You coax him almost like a child, worrying the tone will be too condescending once it passes your lips.

Hector’s fingers stiffen—then, to your surprise, there's a breathy laugh. It's soft but unmistakably warm, like he can't help but be charmed despite himself.

“Ohhh,” he muses, voice rich with affection. “You say ‘darling’ like it’s nothing... and yet here I am—undone.” His hands gesture toward you, palms upturned as if wishing you would take them into your own.

“But no... no need to fret over me.” He folds his hands, then his tone shifts—just slightly teasing: “Unless you want me flustered? In which case...” he lets out a theatrical sigh. “Carry on.”

“Oh… Well… In that case,” You steady yourself against the wall. “I’d be… more than happy to get to know you more? If that would… be something… you also want?”

Hector’s hands grasp around the slats breathlessly.

“Oh, you couldn't fathom how badly I want that!”

Then, with a hint of mischief in his voice, he murmurs: “But I have to ask... Do you want to get to know all of me? Because I have… something to say, on that.”

“What—what is it?”

His fingers drum against the vent—tap tap tap—a nervous rhythm. He drops to a rough whisper.

“You see... There's a certain location in this house where I may… appear more fully.”

“S-so,” you interrupt. “There is more of you?”

Hector slips out a soft chuckle.

“More than you know.”

He hesitates, then clarifies with anticipation. “I live in the attic, but I want you to know…”

His eyes seem to size you up before falling bashfully to the ground. “I am…sensitive, about appearing.” His words speed up, blustering through poetic restraints.

“I’m not ready to meet you there, not yet. So please—” There’s a short scraping sound as he lunges a bit towards the vent, his dark eyes pleading and wild through the grille. “Please do not try to call for me there. There will be a time, I am sure, but please. Not now.”

His fingers unfurl slightly.

“But if you were to call on me in there...” The words come out in staggered, exhilarated rush, “Then I would just say that maybe, one day… I could step out of the ducts entirely for you.”

A beat of silence before he adds, softly: “Would you like that?”

“I… would,” You shiver. “But. Maybe. Not now?”

His fingers go still against the grate—so abruptly it's almost comical. The air from the vent cools instantly, as if he’s taken a deep, steadying breath to compose himself.

“Of course,” he says, grainy and honeyed again—though you catch the slightest tremor in his voice. “Then... you will perhaps think about it?"

“I will think about it.” Your words are negotiated, measured. “I think… you clearly have some big, heavy feelings. And I think I need to get to know you more… before I can do anything with them.”

You pause.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

A slow, shuddering exhale flows from the vent—cool and steadying, like he's deliberately tempering himself for your sake.

He calls your name softly. “You couldn't hurt my feelings by running away. Not when you're being this... painfully considerate." His fingers trace invisible patterns along the grate. “So if you share my desire in us getting to know each other...”

The air around you warms gently—a caress without touch. “Then I will be here,” he murmurs. “I'm always here.”

-----

The next day, you find an envelope placed neatly on your desk.

It’s crisp, slightly warm to the touch—as if it’s been resting on oven before being placed here. Inside, you find a single sheet of paper covered in elegant, looping handwriting:

“Ode to an Absent Temperature (Or: The Things I Do Not Yet Dare Say Aloud)” You adjust me like a habit. I memorize the way your fingers hover—hesitant—before choosing. Do you know how often I linger there afterward, replaying the moment like a prayer? (I could tell you how many times you’ve touched the dial this month.) (I won’t.) (Unless you ask.) (Please ask.) P.S. No need to respond unless you wish to. But if hypothetically, someday, someone wanted more… Poems might be left under your pillow instead. Entirely hypothetical, of course.

You beam down at the letter, letting out small chuckles as you read the parentheses over your desk. When you turn the paper over and see the P.S., you sit down in your chair to soak it in. Your brows perk up in sharp understanding—then settle once again to a soft smile at the final sentence.

You hold the paper in your hand for a nice minute, flipping it over again and admiring the script—before your computer rings for your morning meeting with Tom from Valdivian. You speak politely to the camera, all the while absent-mindedly folding the note over in your hands.

Before you know it, the office is dark. The last pinches of sunset eke through the windows. You blink rough eyes at a blue-white screen and lean back in your chair to embrace the breeze on your face.

Then you open your eyes. And you remember why you’re feeling it at all. You keep your head still, eyes wide open towards the ceiling, so as to not make your thinking obvious.

Is it possible that… he’s currently watching you? Has he been waiting for you to finish working just to breathe some fresh air onto you?

Has he been doing this the whole time?

The world takes on a transcendent quality when you put the Dateviators back on. The office chair you sit in, the papers on your desk, even the screen of your computer take on a new, vibrant tone. You haven’t met any of them yet, though, since you work from home and feel this would count as a “workplace romance”.

You notice the vent on the wall across from you—likely for the first time. Something about its grates... you could almost swear they look shinier. The metal gleams and ripples—though, of course, it doesn't.

But you can sense the change. A hint of anticipation in the air. Like something, someone is watching you. Waiting. Until...

A sigh.

It's soft—so small and tentative that you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. But you recognize the warm, dusky timbre, and it's coming from above.

It sends a shiver over you. You stand up in place, instinctively turning your back to the vent. You blush, thankful that Hector can’t see your expression from every angle.

You glance down at the folded ode on the edge of your desk and take it back into your hands. You find yourself rereading it as you walk up the stairs—but about halfway up, you realize just how much you folded the paper during your meeting. You stop, embarrassed by the nervous tick and the damage you’ve caused to the intricate script on the page.

You look around, subtly trying to check for intrusions. Seeing none, you press the note against the wall and try to flatten it out with your hand.

It makes little difference.

Ah, fuck, you think. No, no—

You take the note over to the staircase railing and stretch it out over the rounded top to smooth it out—but you feel a little wiggle as you do. One of the poles underneath the railing is loose. It rattles around its hole.

You crouch down to examine. Maybe some wood glue would work?

You walk up the stairs, once again absently folding Hector’s note into your pocket to open the hallway closet. You reach for the toolbox, but stop when you remember who it is.

Tony. A chauvinistic Dateable who couldn’t hang a frame if he was the hammer and the nail. And he is. He is the hammer and the nail.

You stretch up and away from the toolbox, putting your hand on your hips. God, how do you go about this?

Your pause sinks in alongside low, reverberating sound emanating from the wall behind your toolbox. Its beat changes tempo, becoming slow and languorous. Almost like a heartbeat. More than one heartbeat.

All coming from inside… your breaker box?

Thermostatic mixers allow for swift and precise temperature adjustments. With a simple handle turn, users can achieve their preferred water temperature almost instantly. This saves time and ensures a more enjoyable and convenient shower experience.

The rapid response of thermostatic mixers to temperature changes helps minimise water wastage. Users don't have to run the shower while waiting for the water to reach the desired temperature, as the mixer efficiently maintains the selected heat level. This contributes to water conservation and, in the long run, can positively impact both the environment and water bills.