Three days pass.
Three whole days of blissful, uneventful, coffee-spill-free life.
I'd almost convinced myself Evan was a one-time event—like that freak thunderstorm in June or my brief but intense obsession with K-pop choreography.
Until I walk into my apartment building's laundry room and find him standing there.
In front of the only available washer.
With my basket of dirty clothes in one hand.
And my underwear on top.
We both freeze.
Him: mildly startled.
Me: experiencing instant ego death.
"…Hi," I say, voice cracking like I'm going through puberty again.
He blinks. Then smiles. Then doesn't immediately set my basket on fire out of secondhand embarrassment. "Hey. Leila, right?"
I nod and silently beg the ceiling to collapse.
"You live here?" he asks.
I somehow forget how words work for a second. "Yes. I mean—yes. Just moved in. Fourth floor. You?"
"Same. Third floor."
The building has five floors.
Why is fate trying to make us neighbors?
"I didn't realize this was yours," he says, finally placing the basket gently on the bench like it's not full of mismatched socks and laundry shame. "There wasn't a name or… ownership tag."
"Do people usually tag their laundry?" I ask.
"You'd be surprised. One guy tapes a picture of his face to his basket."
"Honestly? Respect."
A short silence follows. He leans casually against the dryer, arms crossed, looking way too relaxed for someone who just touched my polka-dot pajama shorts.
"I owe you an apology," he says suddenly.
I blink. "For what? I'm the one who murdered your phone with hot sugar."
"I still haven't let you make it up to me," he says with a lopsided smile.
I stare at him. "Are you… actually letting me repay the favor now?"
"Well, I am tragically washer-less at the moment," he says, gesturing at the ancient, wheezing machines. "The app won't let me book a slot until later tonight."
I frown, then glance at the washer already running. Mine.
I sigh. "Okay. Fine. You can use mine after this load finishes."
He grins. "You sure?"
"Yeah. As long as you promise not to shrink my sweaters or bleach my lucky socks."
"Deal."
We both sit down on the bench to wait. The air is filled with the soft hum of laundry spinning and the faint scent of fabric softener.
"You seem calmer today," I note.
He shrugs. "No coffee-related trauma yet."
"Don't get too comfortable. I'm holding a grudge against gravity."
A quiet laugh escapes him.
And just like that, it's not awkward anymore. It's… weirdly nice. Warm. Like maybe this wasn't fate being chaotic—maybe this was fate giving me a second shot.
After all, not every guy stays polite after you ruin his phone and hand him your laundry basket covered in glitter socks and existential dread.
Maybe Evan isn't my type.
But maybe that's exactly the point.
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