I tested the water. It was just beginning to make its way up the side of the giant tub when I decided I needed a little coffee before I settled in. I padded out to the kitchen—naked as the day is long—to make myself a cup. I yawned as I measured the beans for the grinder.

I tossed a few spoonfuls into the filter and went to get water. As soon as I turned on the faucet, the screeching began.

First I heard Clive meow like never before. Then I heard splashing. I started to smile, thinking he’d finally fallen in, when the water from the sink shot straight in my face.

I blinked furiously, confused until I realized water was shooting out the top of the faucet, spraying the entire kitchen. “Shit!” I screamed, trying to turn it off. No luck.

I ran to the bathroom, still swearing and found Clive hiding behind the toilet, soaking wet, and the tub faucet spraying wildly all over the bathroom. “What the—?” I cried, trying again to turn off the water. Then I began to panic. It was like the entire apartment had gone haywire at the same moment. There was water spraying everywhere, and Clive was still screeching at the top of his lungs.

I was naked, sopping wet, and freaking out.

“Motherfuckingcocksuckershitdamndamn!” I screamed and grabbed a towel. I tried to think, tried to calm down. There must be a shut-off valve somewhere. I’d redesigned bathrooms, for Christ’s sake. Think, Caroline!

About this time I heard the banging coming from somewhere else in the apartment. Of course I thought it was the bedroom first—naturally. But no, it was the front door.

Wrapping the towel around myself and still cursing enough to make a sailor blush, I stomped across the floor, fortunately not slipping in the collecting water, and angrily swung the door open.

Of course it was Simon.

“Are you out of your goddamned mind? What’s with all the screaming?”

I practically didn’t notice the green plaid boxers, the sleep hair, or the speedbump abs. Practically.

Survival mode kicked in, and I grabbed him by the elbow as he was rubbing his eye and dragged him forcibly into the apartment. “Where the hell is the shut-off valve in these apartments?” I shrieked.

He looked around at the chaos: water spraying from the kitchen, water on the floor from the bathroom, and me in my Camp Snoopy towel, which was the first one I grabbed.

Even in a crisis Simon took 2.5 seconds to look at my nearly naked body. Okay, I might have taken 3.2 to look at his.

Then we both snapped into action. He ran into the bathroom like a man on a mission, and I could hear him knocking around. Clive hissed and ran out, straight into the kitchen. Realizing it was just as wet in there, he leapt across the room in an acrobatic fit and landed high atop the fridge. I started to run to the bathroom to help and collided with Simon as he ran to the kitchen. Undeterred, he slid across the floor and opened the doors under the sink. He began throwing my cleaning supplies all over the floor, and I assumed he was trying to get at the shut-off valve. I tried not to notice the way the back of his boxers clung to his buns. I tried so very hard. He was covered in water as well now, and just then his feet slipped out from under him, crashing him to the floor.

“Ow,” he said from under the sink, his legs now splayed out across my wet kitchen floor. Then he rolled over. He was soaking wet and a tad bit glorious.

“Get over here and help me. I can’t get this one turned off,” he requested over the rushing water and the cat meowing.

Remembering that I was only wearing a towel, I gingerly knelt next to him and tried to avoid looking at his body—his wet, long, lean body that was dangerously close to my own. One more random jet of water straight into my eyeball was enough to pull me from my stupor, and I renewed my focus.

“What do you want me to do?” I yelled.

“Do you have a wrench?”

“Yes!”

“Can you go get it?”

“Sure!”

“Why are you yelling?”

“I don’t know!” I sat there, trying to see underneath the sink.

“Well, go get it, for God’s sake!”

“Right. Right!” I yelled and ran for the hall closet.

When I came back, I slipped a little on the wet tile and slid into his side.

“Here!” I yelled and thrust the wrench under the sink.

I watched him work, his face hidden. His arms strained, and I saw how strong he really was. I watched in amazement as his stomach hardened and revealed six little packs. Oops, make that eight. And then the V showed up. Hello, V…

He grunted and groaned and as he strained to turn off the valve, his entire body caught up in the struggle. I watched as he fought the Battle of the Valve and was finally triumphant. I also kept a close eye on those green plaid boxers, which when wet, clung to him like a second skin. Skin that was wet, and probably warm, and—

“Got it!”

“Hurray!” I clapped as the water finally stopped. He let out one last groan, which sounded oddly familiar, and relaxed. I watched as he slid out from under the sink.

He lay next to me on the floor, soaked and in his boxers.

I sat next to him, soaked and in a towel.

Clive sat on top of the fridge, soaked and angry.

Clive continued to yell/meow, and we continued to stare at each other, breathing heavily—Simon because of his battle and I…because of his battle. Clive finally jumped down from the fridge to the counter and skidded across in the puddle. He hit my radio, bounced off, and fell to the floor. Loud Marvin Gaye poured into the wet kitchen as Clive shook himself and ran for the living room.

“Let’s get it on…” Marvin sang it like he meant it, and Simon and I looked at each other, our faces stained crimson red.

“Are you kidding me?” I said.

“Is this for real?” he said, and we both started to laugh—at the chaos, at the ridiculousness, at the sheer insanity of what had just happened and the fact that we were now lying half naked in my kitchen, covered in water, listening to a song that encouraged us to, in fact, “get it on,” and laughing our asses off.

I finally straightened up, wiping tears from my eyes. He sat up next to me still holding his stomach.

“This is like a bad episode of Three’s Company.” He chuckled.

“No kidding. I hope someone called Mr. Furley.” I giggled, drawing my towel tighter around me.

“Shall we get this cleaned up?” he asked, standing.

I noticed that his boxers, and anything that might be contained inside, were now at eye level. Settle, Caroline.