I Fixed Her AC at Midnight – “It’s So Hot, Take Off “-hongtran

I can come by tomorrow morning. It’s supposed to be 98 tomorrow. Any chance you could come tonight? I should have said no.
I can be there in 45 minutes. When Diane answered the door, she was in a silk robe, hair down this time, damp like she just showered. The robe was short, barely mid thigh, and loosely tied at the waist.
I could see the curve of her collar bone where it fell open, the shadow between her breasts.
“Sorry about the outfit,” she said, stepping back to let me in. “I was trying to cool down before bed. I wasn’t expecting you to get here so fast. I wasn’t far. Just finished a call in Brooklyn. It wasn’t true. I’d been in Queens.
Had driven like a maniac to get here because some part of me knew this wasn’t really about the AC. The apartment was cool, 70°, comfortable.
The AC was running smoothly, and I didn’t hear any grinding, just the steady hum of a perfectly functioning system doing exactly what it was designed to do. Show me where the sound’s coming from,”
I said, even though I already knew the answer. She led me to the utility closet. We stood there in the small space listening.

The unit ran smoothly, perfectly silent, except for the normal operational hum that every AC makes. I let the silence stretch, counted to 30 in my head, then 60. Gave her every opportunity to admit what this really was.
Still nothing but smooth, quiet operation. It stopped, she said finally, not looking at me.
When? Maybe. 20 minutes ago. Now she looked at me. Or maybe it never started. Maybe I just wanted to see you again and I’m 46 years old and apparently I’ve forgotten how to ask someone on a date like a normal person.
I turned to look at her. We were close. Diane, what is there actually a problem with your AC? She met my eyes. The moment stretched.
Then no, there’s not. Then why am I here? Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for 3 days. Because I’m 46 years old and apparently very bad at this. Because you were kind and professional and I thought maybe she stopped.
This was a mistake. I should have left instead. Why me? What do you mean? You’re beautiful, successful.
You live in a loft in the arts district. Why call the HVAC guy back with a fake emergency? Why not just, I don’t know, use a dating app like everyone else? She stepped closer and we were suddenly inches apart in the small closet
because dating apps are full of men my age who are either divorced and bitter or never married and weird about it.
Because the art world guys are pretentious and exhausting. Because the last three first dates I went on, the men spent the entire time either mansplaining my own industry to me or asking if I had work done. Another step.
Now we were close enough. I could smell her shampoo. Something floral. Jasmine, maybe. Because you were kind to me when I was desperate and sweaty and not at my best.
Because you didn’t stare at my chest even though I was basically naked. Because you talked to me like a person, not a potential conquest or a midlife crisis. Because when I said something inappropriate, you set a boundary instead of taking advantage.
Her hand came up, hovering near my face, but not quite touching.
Because I haven’t felt this attracted to someone in years. And I’m tired of pretending I follow all the rules. Because you said I could call you for any reason. And this is a reason. I’m covered in sweat and smell like refrigerant.