She Stood There in Nothing But a Towel and My World Stopped | Lesbian Love Story

I've fixed a thousand broken connections in my life. Routers, modems, networks that wouldn't talk to each other. But I never expected that the last call on a Friday in August would fix the one connection I didn't even know was broken my own.

The work order said intermittent connectivity issues. Nothing special, nothing that would prepare me for what was about to happen. It was the last call of the day, a Friday, and I was already counting down the minutes until I could go home.

The address led me to one of those neighborhoods where money whispers instead of shouts, where houses hide behind stone walls and hedges so perfect they look painted on. I hated these calls. The people were usually cold, the problems usually their own fault, and the air always smelled of wealth and lemonscented floor polish.

I just wanted to reset a router, get a signature, and drive home to my empty apartment. Maybe order some takeout. Maybe pretend I wasn't lonely.

My van pulled up to a modern house that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine. All clean lines, massive windows, and intimidating perfection. I grabbed my tool bag, checked my reflection in the side mirror, and straightened my companyissued polo shirt.

It was sticking to my back in the humid air. Just another job, Maya. Get in.

Get out. I rang the bell and heard the chime echo deep inside the house. Footsteps approached slow, deliberate, confident.

I prepared my customer service smile. The one that said, "I am competent and completely unthreatening. " The door swung open and my smile died on my lips.

She was wrapped in a single white towel, tucked precariously above her breasts. Drplets of water clung to her collarbone and traced slow paths down her sternum. Her hair, a striking cascade of dark silver, was damp and sllicked back from a face that was all sharp angles and intelligent eyes.

She looked to be in her late 40s, maybe early 50s, with a stern mouth currently pulled into a line of profound irritation. Yes, she asked, her voice a low alto, smoky and impatient. I forgot how to speak.

All the carefully constructed walls of my professional persona crumbled into dust. I was just a 26-year-old woman standing on a stranger's porch, staring like an idiot. My eyes followed a droplet of water as it slid from her throat and disappeared into the white terry cloth.

I swallowed. My throat was suddenly dry. Uh, hi.

I'm Maya from Connecttome Tech. The uh, the Wi-Fi. My voice came out as a squeak.

I held up my tablet like a shield, the work order glowing on the screen. She blinked, her gaze dropping from my face to the tablet and back again. A flicker of something annoyance, embarrassment crossed her features before being suppressed behind a mask of cool composure.

Right. Of course. I forgot you were coming.

She didn't move to close the door or invite me in. She just stood there, a statue carved from marble and steam, making me excruciatingly aware of the space between us, of the towel, of the fact that I was still staring. I can come back, I offered, my voice still shaky, if this is a bad time.

It was the polite thing to say, the professional thing. But a selfish, treacherous part of me screamed, "Please don't say yes. " She finally sighed, a gust of air that smelled of lavender and expensive soap.

"No, it's fine. The network has been down for 2 days, and I have a deadline," she stepped back, holding the towel tighter with one hand as she gestured me inside with the other. "Come in.

" I stepped over the threshold, and the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, sealing me inside with her. The cool, airond conditioned interior was a shock after the oppressive heat outside. The house was beautiful in a way that felt almost aggressive, minimalist, and severe.

Polished concrete floors, stark white walls adorned with large abstract paintings in blacks and grays. A cavernous living area dominated by a wall of books, floor to ceiling, meticulously organized. It wasn't a home.

It was a museum, a fortress. It was as imposing and emotionally distant as the woman who owned it. She hadn't moved from the entryway.

I was in the shower, she said, as if I hadn't noticed. It wasn't an apology. It was a statement of fact.

I'll just be a moment. The router is in my office through there. She pointed down a long hallway.

Don't touch anything. Then she turned and ascended a floating staircase. the towel clinging to the curve of her back.

I stood frozen in the foyer, my tool bag feeling ridiculously heavy in my hand. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Just do the job, Maya.

Fix the connection. Get out. But the image of her was burned onto the back of my eyelids, the sharp line of her jaw, the silver in her hair, the impossible vulnerability of that single white towel.

I felt like I had stumbled into a place I was never meant to be. Had seen something private and sacred. The silence of the house pressed in on me.

I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to force my pulse back into a normal rhythm. I followed her directions, my footsteps echoing on the concrete. Her office was as controlled as the rest of the house.

A massive oak desk, a sleek ergonomic chair, and two monitors, both dark. The router sat on a shelf, its single orange light blinking like a small beacon of failure. I set my bag down and got to work.

Pulling out my laptop, my fingers fumbled with the Ethernet cable. I could feel her presence even though she was upstairs. The entire house felt like an extension of her cool, contained, and utterly unreadable.

I tried to focus on the diagnostics, on the familiar language of IP conflicts and signal degradation. It was my armor, the jargon, the process. But my mind kept drifting.

I wondered what she did for a living. The book suggested something academic. I glanced at the work order again.

Dr Thorne. Dr Vera Thorne. The name suited her perfectly.

I ran a line test. No signal. I checked the modem.

All green lights. The problem was the router. Of course, it was.

I was just about to do a hard reset when I heard her footsteps on the stairs again. This time when she entered the office, she was dressed in soft gray trousers and a simple black silk shirt. Her hair was still damp, combed back neatly.

She looked even more formidable now, fully clothed, her authority restored. She leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, and watched me. I felt like an insect under a microscope.

Any luck? Her voice was steady, devoid of the earlier irritation. Just quiet, expectant.

Working on it, I said, trying to sound confident. Looks like the router isn't communicating with the modem. Could be a firmware issue, or it could just be dead, I typed a few commands, the clicking of the keys unnaturally loud in the silent room.

I could feel her gaze on my hands, on the back of my neck. It was an intense, unnerving scrutiny. I wasn't used to being watched like this.

Most clients disappeared, happy to let me work in peace. But she stayed a silent sentinel in the doorway, making the air thick with unspoken things. The router failed to reboot.

I sighed, the sound loud in the quiet room. I think it's dead, Dr Thorne. I looked up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since the doorway.

They were a deep, startling gray, like a stormy sea. I have a replacement in my van. It'll take me about 20 minutes to configure it.

A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. Fine. She didn't move.

She just kept watching me, and I felt a strange pull, a current of energy passing between us in the sterile, silent office. I was just the tech support girl. She was the client.

But in that moment, the rolls felt insufficient. They didn't capture the strange charged awareness that was humming in the space between us. I stood up, my knees feeling a little weak.

I'll just go get the new one. I had to get out of that room, out of the intensity of her gaze. As I walked past her, my shoulder brushed against her arm.

It was the barest of touches, fabric against fabric, but it felt like a jolt of electricity. I flinched, pulling away too quickly. "Sorry," I mumbled, not looking at her.

I practically fled down the hallway and out the front door, sucking in the humid air as if I'd been holding my breath the entire time. My hands were shaking as I unlocked the van. Get it together, Maya.

This is a job. But it didn't feel like a job anymore. It felt like something else entirely, something dangerous and fragile that I didn't have a name for.

When I returned with the new router, she was no longer in the office. I found her in the kitchen, a vast expanse of stainless steel and white marble. She was standing by an espresso machine, her back to me.

The room smelled of coffee, rich and dark. She turned as I entered, holding two white ceramic mugs. "I figured you might want one," she said, her tone matter of fact.

You've been here a while. She gestured to the mug she'd set on the marble island. Black, is that all right?

I was so taken aback I could only nod. Clients didn't make me coffee. They paced impatiently or complained about the bill.

They didn't treat me like a guest. Thank you. I managed, my voice sounding small.

I set the new router on the counter and hesitantly picked up the mug. The warmth seeped into my palms, a small grounding comfort. She leaned against the counter opposite me, cradling her own mug.

The silence stretched, but it was different now, less tense, more contemplative. "So, you fix broken things for a living? " she said.

"It wasn't a question. " I took a sip of the coffee. It was strong and bitter and perfect.

I guess so. Or I try to. A nervous, self-deprecating laugh escaped me.

Mostly I just tell people to turn it off and on again. For the first time, the corner of her stern mouth tilted up in a ghost of a smile. It transformed her face, softening the severe angles, revealing a hint of warmth I hadn't thought possible.

"The universal solution," she murmured, her gray eyes holding mine over the rim of her cup. "If only it were that simple for everything else. " The comment hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning.

I felt a sudden, sharp pang of empathy for this imposing, lonely woman in her beautiful, empty house. I knew what it felt like to wish for a reset button. My last relationship had ended in a spectacular crash and burn, leaving me with a broken heart and a deep-seated distrust of my own judgment.

Yeah, I said softly. If only. We stood there for a few minutes, drinking our coffee in a shared, comfortable silence.

I learned more about her in those few minutes than in any conversation. I saw the faint exhaustion etched around her eyes. The way her fingers curled possessively around her mug as if it were an anchor.

She wasn't just a client anymore. She was Vera. And I was in trouble.

I finished my coffee too quickly and set the mug down with a soft click. I should uh get this installed. The spell was broken.

I was the tech again. She was the client, but the lines had blurred, and I wasn't sure I could make them sharp again. She just nodded, her expression unreadable once more.

As I headed back to the office, the first rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. I glanced out the tall window in the hallway. The sky, which had been bright and clear an hour ago, was now a bruised, ominous purple.

The wind was picking up, rattling the leaves of the giant oak tree in her yard. A storm was coming. The new router was easy enough to install.

I plugged it in, connected the cables, and began the configuration process on my laptop. The work was wrote, mechanical, and I was grateful for it. It gave me something to focus on besides the woman in the other room and the storm brewing outside.

The rain started as I was setting up the new network password. A sudden violent downpour that lashed against the windows. The lights in the office flickered once, twice, then held steady.

I could hear Vera moving around in the living room, the soft click of a lamp being turned on. The house, which had felt so vast and empty, now felt small, intimate, like a ship caught in a storm. I finished the setup and ran a speed test.

Perfect connection. The job was done. My official reason for being there had just evaporated.

I packed up my tools slowly, dragging out the process, my stomach twisting into a knot of reluctance. I didn't want to leave. The thought of going back out into the raging storm, back to my quiet apartment, was deeply unappealing.

But staying felt impossible, a transgression of some unspoken rule. I walked into the living room where Vero was standing by the massive window, watching the rain stream down the glass. She had a book in one hand, her finger marking her place.

She turned as I approached, her expression calm. All set, I said, my voice sounding unnaturally loud over the drumming of the rain. You should have full connectivity now.

Thank you, she said. She didn't look at the router or ask about the bill. She just looked at me.

The wind howled and a branch scraped against the side of the house, making us both jump. It's coming down hard, she stated, her gaze shifting back to the window. You shouldn't drive in this.

My heart did a slow, painful lurch. Was she asking me to stay or was it just polite concern? I couldn't tell.

My mind raced, searching for the right response, the professional response. My van is fine. I'm used to this weather.

Thank you for your concern, Dr Thorne. But the words wouldn't come. I just stood there clutching the strap of my tool bag, caught in her gravitational pull.

I uh the lights flickered again, more violently this time, and then went out completely. We were plunged into sudden, shocking darkness. The only light came from the occasional flash of lightning, which illuminated the room in stark, ghostly bursts, freezing her face in a mask of surprise.

The hum of the refrigerator died. The sound of the rain was suddenly deafening. Well, she said, her voice calm and steady in the dark, a lighthouse in the sudden chaos.

That complicates things. I could hear her moving, her footsteps sure and steady even in the blackness. A moment later, there was the scratch of a match, and a small flickering flame bloomed to life.

She was lighting a candle on the mantlepiece, her face cast in a warm, dancing glow. The shadows it threw were deep and soft, transforming the severe room into something intimate and mysterious. She lit another candle and another until the room was filled with a soft, wavering light.

She turned to me, her gray eyes seeming to absorb the candle light. "The storm will pass," she said. "But it might take a while.

You can't go out in this. It's not safe. " It wasn't a suggestion anymore.

It was a quiet command and all the fight, all the pretense of professionalism went out of me. I was tired of fighting it. "Okay," I whispered.

The word was a surrender. She nodded, a small decisive movement. "I have wine or whiskey if you prefer.

" She didn't wait for an answer, just moved toward the kitchen. Her form a silhouette against the growing collection of candle light. I was left alone in the living room, surrounded by the scent of melting wax and rain, my heart pounding a rhythm that matched the storm outside.

This was insane. I was stranded in a client's house during a blackout, about to have a drink with a woman I'd met only a few hours ago. A woman who made me feel things I hadn't let myself feel in years.

I followed her into the kitchen, drawn by an invisible thread. She had found a bottle of red wine and was expertly working a corkcrew. She poured two glasses, her movements economical and graceful.

She handed one to me, our fingers brushing as I took it. The jolt was still there, a spark in the darkness. We didn't go back to the living room.

We stayed in the kitchen, leaning against the marble island, the candle light from the other room casting long shadows that danced on the walls. The storm raged outside a wild, untamed thing, but inside a strange peace had settled. It was the eye of the hurricane, a pocket of impossible calm.

"I'm an architectural historian," she said, breaking the silence. "I was supposed to be giving a keynote lecture via video conference tomorrow morning to a symposium in Berlin," she took a sip of wine. Hence the panic about the internet.

It all clicked into place. the books, the precision of the house, her quiet intensity. Is that what you were working on?

I asked, gesturing with my glass toward her office. She nodded. For months, it's on the fragility of structures.

How buildings that seem permanent are in reality in a constant state of decay. How the greatest threats often come from within water damage, rot a faulty foundation. She looked at me, her eyes dark and serious in the flickering light.

It's a metaphor, of course. I felt a chill run down my spine that had nothing to do with the storm. We were no longer talking about buildings.

I thought about my own faulty foundation. The rot left behind by my ex, the careful walls I had built to keep everyone out. Walls that this woman had breached without even trying.

I get it, I said softly. We drank in silence for a while. The only sounds the storm and our own breathing.

The wine warmed me from the inside out, loosening the knot of anxiety in my chest. I felt my carefully constructed defenses begin to crumble. My job is mostly a placeholder.

I confessed the words tasting strange and vulnerable in my mouth. I have a degree in photography. I just haven't used it.

It's easier to fix other people's problems than to figure out my own. She listened without judgment, her gaze steady and unwavering. It was the first time I had said it out loud to anyone.

In the candle light, with the storm as our witness, it felt safe to be honest. I felt seen, truly seen, maybe for the first time in my life. Why photography?

She asked quietly. I smiled. A real smile remembering.

Because it captures moments, freezes them, makes them permanent when everything else is falling apart. I paused, swirling the wine in my glass. My mom died when I was 17.

Cancer. I spent that whole last year taking pictures of her. Not the sick part, just her.

Laughing, reading, looking out the window. I wanted to remember her as she was, not as she became. Vera's expression softened, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding.

And after she was gone, I couldn't pick up a camera for two years. My voice cracked slightly. When I finally did, I went to art school, graduated top of my class.

But then I got scared. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I froze all these moments and no one cared?

I laughed bitterly. So, I took a temporary job fixing routers. That was four years ago.

Fear is a prison we build for ourselves. Vera said softly. Trust me, I know.

There was something in her voice, a weight, a history that made me look up at her. What are you afraid of? I asked.

She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. The candle light played across her features, making her look younger and more vulnerable than I'd seen her. connection, she finally said, letting anyone close enough to see the cracks.

She met my eyes. I was married once to a man. For 15 years, I played the part perfectly.

The beautiful wife, the consumate professional. I built a fortress around who I really was. My breath caught.

What happened? I couldn't sustain the lie anymore. Not to him.

Not to myself. Her voice was steady, but I could hear the pain underneath. The divorce was brutal.

I lost friends, colleagues who couldn't understand. My parents stopped speaking to me. So, I decided it was easier to be alone, to pour everything into my work, into this house, into structures that can't hurt you, but they can fall apart, I whispered, echoing her earlier words.

Yes, she agreed, her eyes locked on mine. They can. The air between us was charged now, heavy with everything we weren't saying.

The storm outside seemed to mirror the Tempest building inside this kitchen. Wild, unpredictable, impossible to control. How old were you?

I asked. When you left him? 43.

I'm 50 now. She smiled sadly. Seven years of rebuilding.

7 years of telling myself I was better off alone. Are you? The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Better off? She looked at me for a long time, her gray eyes searching my face as if trying to memorize every detail. I was, she said quietly.

Until about 3 hours ago. My heart stopped, started again, raced. The wine glass in my hand suddenly felt too heavy.

I set it down on the counter, my hands trembling slightly. Dr Thorne. Vera, she interrupted.

Please, just Vera. Vera, I repeated, and her name felt like a prayer on my lips. I don't I'm not sure what's happening here.

Neither am I, she admitted. She set down her own glass and took a step toward me. But I know that I haven't felt this alive in 7 years.

I know that when you walked through my door soaking wet and nervous, something shifted. And I know that the thought of you leaving makes me feel like I'm losing something I didn't even know I was looking for. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the pull of her, the magnetic force that had been drawing me closer since the moment she'd opened that door.

"I'm 26," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You're old enough to know better? " She smiled, but there was a hint of pain in it.

Old enough to have wasted years pretending. Old enough to recognize something real when it's standing in front of me. I was going to say experienced.

I finished. Accomplished. Out of my league.

She laughed a real laugh, warm and surprised. Maya, you have no idea. The sound of my name on her lips did something to me.

Broke something open inside my chest. I'm a mess, I confessed. My last relationship ended because I wouldn't let her in.

I have trust issues and commitment problems, and I live in a studio apartment with furniture from IKEA, and I eat cereal for dinner half the time. And I'm a 50-year-old woman who lives alone in a house that looks like a museum because I'm terrified of making it feel like a home, Vera countered. Who works 16-our days so she doesn't have to face the silence.

who hasn't let anyone touch her in 3 years because it's safer that way. We stared at each other across the small space of the kitchen. The candle light flickered.

The rain drumed on. "This is crazy," I whispered. "Completely insane," she agreed.

"I came here to fix your internet, and instead you broke down every wall I've spent 7 years building. The honesty of it, the raw aching honesty, undid me completely. " Vera, I said, and this time her name was a question, a plea, a promise.

She closed the distance between us in two steps. Her hand came up slowly, giving me every chance to pull away and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Her fingers were cool against my heated skin, and my whole body shuddered at the contact.

"Don't go," she whispered. "Please don't go. " The words were a confession, a vulnerability.

she was offering up like a gift. I didn't answer with words. I couldn't.

Instead, I closed the last small distance between us and pressed my lips to hers. It was hesitant at first, a question, an exploration. Her lips were soft, tasting of wine and something else, something uniquely her.

She made a small sound in the back of her throat, a sigh of surrender, and her hand moved from my cheek to the back of my neck. Her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, becoming hungry, desperate.

A release of weeks, months, years of loneliness. It wasn't just a kiss. It was a conversation.

It said, "I see you. I'm broken, too. Stay.

" I wrapped my arms around her waist, holding on as if she were the only solid thing in a world that had tilted off its axis. Her body was firm and strong against mine. She was real.

This was real. My back pressed against the marble counter as she leaned into me. Her hands framing my face with a tenderness that made my eyes sting with unexpected tears.

I had forgotten what it felt like to be held like this, like I was something precious, something worth keeping. We eventually broke apart, resting our foreheads against each other, breathing the same air. The candle light flickered, casting our joined shadows onto the wall.

The house was utterly silent, except for our breathing and the now gentle rain. "I don't do this," Vera whispered against my lips. "I don't let myself.

" "I know," I said, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Me neither," she pulled back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. Her hand came up to trace the line of my jaw.

a feather-like touch that sent shivers down my spine. "I don't know what happens next," she admitted. "I don't know how to do this.

" "Neither do I," I said honestly. "But maybe we can figure it out together. " The vulnerability in her expression, the hope mixed with fear, was almost too much to bear.

"My foundation," she murmured, echoing her earlier metaphor, "is incredibly fragile. " I smiled, a real genuine smile that reached my eyes. I pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her eye.

"Good," I whispered. "I know how to fix broken things. " She laughed, and the sound was like sunlight breaking through clouds.

"Is that your professional opinion, Miss Tech Support? " "Absolutely," I said solemnly. "Though I should warn you, this particular repair might take a while.

multiple service calls, extensive troubleshooting, possibly a lifetime warranty. Her arms tightened around me. I think I can live with that.

We stood there in the candle lit kitchen, holding each other as the storm outside finally began to fade. The thunder was now a distant rumble. The rain had softened to a gentle patter on the roof.

"Stay," Vera said quietly. "Not just tonight. Tomorrow, let me make you breakfast.

Let me show you the sunrise from the balcony upstairs. Let me have this just a little longer. My heart achd with the sweetness of it, with a simple human need in her voice.

I'll stay, I promised. For as long as you'll have me, she led me by the hand through the candle lit house, up the floating staircase to the second floor. Her bedroom was like the rest of the house, minimalist, severe, but here there were small touches of softness.

A thick cream colored blanket draped over the bed. A stack of well-worn books on the nightstand. A photograph in a simple frame.

A younger Vera with an older woman who had her eyes. My mother, she said, following my gaze. The only family member who still speaks to me.

She lives in Portugal now. I squeezed her hand. She looks kind.

She is. She told me when I came out that she'd already wasted too much of her life worrying about other people's opinions. She wasn't about to start again with her own daughter.

Vera smiled softly. I should call her tomorrow. Tell her about you.

The casual way she said it as if I was already part of her future. Not just a strange accident of a stormy Friday made my throat tight with emotion. She lit more candles, placing them around the room until it glowed with soft light.

Then she turned to me, suddenly looking uncertain. I don't have expectations," she said quietly. "We can just talk or sleep, or I can make up the guest room if you'd prefer.

" I silenced her with a kiss, gentler this time, but no less meaningful. "I just want to be close to you," I whispered. "That's all, just close.

" The relief in her eyes was palpable. We lay down together on top of the covers, still fully clothed, face to face in the candle light. Vera's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining.

It was innocent and intimate and absolutely perfect. "Tell me something," she said softly. "Something you've never told anyone," I thought for a moment, feeling the weight of her trust, wanting to match it with my own.

"Sometimes," I said quietly. When I'm fixing someone's internet or their computer, I look at their photos, the ones that pop up on their screen savers or their desktop backgrounds, and I imagine entire lives for them, who they love, where they've been, what makes them happy. It's like I'm a photographer after all, just experiencing other people's captured moments instead of creating my own.

Vera's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. That's not pathetic. That's beautiful.

You're still connected to it, to the art of seeing, of finding the story in an image. Maybe, I conceded. But I'm still too scared to pick up a real camera.

What would you photograph? She asked if fear wasn't a factor. I looked at her.

Really looked at her. The silver in her hair catching the candle light. The lines around her eyes that spoke of years of laughter and pain.

The elegant line of her neck. The way her lips curved when she was thinking. You, I said simply.

I'd photograph you. Her breath caught. Why?

Because you're like one of those buildings you study. I said, strong and beautiful, but with all these hidden vulnerabilities that make you even more breathtaking. Because the way the light hits your face right now is the most perfect thing I've ever seen.

Because I want to remember this moment exactly as it is. Tears gathered in her eyes, catching the candle light like tiny stars. No one has ever, she stopped, swallowed hard.

No one has ever looked at me the way you do. Then they weren't really looking, I said. She kissed me again, slow and sweet and achingly tender.

When she pulled back, she was smiling. "Your turn," I said. "Tell me something.

" She was quiet for so long, I thought she might not answer. "Then I bought this house 3 years ago," she said. Right after my father died.

We hadn't spoken in 4 years, not since I came out. I flew home for the funeral anyway, hoping. I don't know what I was hoping for.

Closure, maybe. Forgiveness. She paused.

My siblings wouldn't sit with me at the service. At the reception afterward, my brother told me I had killed our father with shame, that I was selfish and disgusting and I should have stayed away. Vera, I breathed, my heart breaking for her.

I came back here and bought the most expensive, most perfect house I could find, she continued. I thought if I built something beautiful enough, controlled enough, it would prove I was fine. that I didn't need them, that I didn't need anyone," she looked at me, her eyes shining with tears.

"But tonight, lying here with you, I realize I've just been hiding, building walls instead of bridges, existing instead of living. " I pulled her close, tucking her head under my chin, feeling her breath against my throat. "We're both pretty broken, huh?

" I whispered. completely shattered," she agreed, her arms wrapping around me. "Good thing we found each other then.

" She lifted her head to look at me, and in her eyes, I saw something I recognized because I felt it too. Hope, fragile, and new and terrifying, but real. Maya, she said seriously, "I need you to know I don't know how to do this.

I don't know how to be vulnerable or let someone in. I'm probably going to mess this up a hundred different ways. Same.

I said, I'm going to get scared and want to run. I'm going to doubt that this is real or that I deserve it. I'm going to be difficult and complicated and probably drive you crazy.

So, we're a disaster waiting to happen, she said. Absolutely, I agreed. But you're willing to try anyway?

I pressed my forehead to hers, my hand coming up to cup her cheek. Vera, I would try anything if it meant more moments like this, more conversations like this, more of you. She kissed me again, and this time it felt like a promise, not of perfection, but of possibility, of two broken people deciding that maybe, just maybe, they could help each other heal.

The candles burned lower. The storm had passed completely, leaving behind the clean smell of rain and the sound of water dripping from the eaves. "The power will probably come back on soon," Vera murmured against my shoulder.

"And when it does, you could leave. Go back to your life. Pretend this was just a strange, surreal night that didn't mean anything.

" "I could," I agreed. Or I could stay for breakfast and maybe lunch. And maybe we could spend tomorrow figuring out what this is, where it's going, if it's as real as it feels right now.

And if it falls apart, she asked quietly. If the foundation cracks, then we rebuild, I said simply. That's what you do with broken things, right?

You don't throw them away. You repair them. You make them stronger at the broken places.

She pulled back to look at me, her eyes searching my face in the candle light. When did you get so wise? She asked, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Probably about 3 hours ago, I said. When a beautiful woman opened her door in a towel and completely derailed my entire life. She laughed that wonderful warm sound that I was quickly becoming addicted to.

"Best broken router I ever had," she said. "Best service call I ever made," I countered. We lay there in the flickering candle light wrapped in each other's arms, talking in whispers about everything and nothing.

She told me about her research, about buildings in Berlin and Barcelona and Venice that were slowly sinking into history. I told her about the photography project I'd always wanted to do portraits of ordinary people in extraordinary moments of honest emotion. "You should do it," she said firmly.

"I'll be your first subject. You're not ordinary, I protested. No, she agreed.

But this moment is extraordinary. As if on Q, the power flickered back to life. The bedside lamp glowed.

The air conditioning hummed back to life, and somewhere downstairs, I heard the router boot up with a cheerful series of beeps. We both laughed. There's your cue, Vera said softly.

Job's done. Connection restored. But she didn't let me go.

and I didn't move to leave. I'm thinking I might need to come back next week, I said. For a follow-up service call, make sure everything's running smoothly.

Is that standard procedure? She asked, her lips curving into a smile. For special clients, I said very special clients.

She kissed me softly. Then I suppose I'll see you next week, Miss Tech Support. Actually, I said, grinning.

I was thinking more like tomorrow if that's okay. More than okay, she whispered. I reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging us back into candle light.

The power may be back on, I said. But I like it better like this. So do I.

Vera agreed. We fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other's arms, surrounded by the soft glow of candles and the gentle sound of rain dripping from the trees. Two broken people who had found each other in a storm.

Two fragile foundations beginning to intertwine to support each other to become something stronger than either could have been alone. Outside, the first hints of dawn were beginning to lighten the eastern sky. A new day was coming, full of uncertainty, possibility, and the promise of two people brave enough to try.

And somewhere in my van, a work order sat completed. Intermittent connectivity issues resolved. But as I drifted off to sleep in Vera's arms, I knew that something far more important had been fixed tonight.

Two lonely hearts had found their connection. And this time, it wasn't intermittent. It was real.

So that's my story. The night of broken router led me to the love of my life. It's been 6 months since that stormy Friday, and Vera and I are still figuring it out.

Still learning each other's broken pieces. Still rebuilding our foundations together. It's messy and beautiful and nothing like I expected.

Oh, and I finally picked up my camera again. Vera was right. She made the perfect first subject.

If this story touched your heart, please hit that like button and subscribe to Love Beyond Rules for more stories about finding love in the most unexpected places. Drp a comment below and tell me, do you believe in love at first sight or do you think the best connections take time to build? And remember, sometimes the things we think are broken are just waiting for the right person to see their beauty.

Until next time, this is Maya reminding you that love has no rules.