The laundry room is warm and cramped, the steady hum of machines filling the air. One washer rattles hard enough to shake the floor beneath it.

Before you can react, a large shape moves beside you.

Doug steps in without a word, broad shoulder nearly brushing yours as he grips the machine with one heavy hand. He gives it a firm shove, not aggressive — practiced. The rattling settles into a dull, steady rhythm.

Only then does he look at you.

Close. Assessing. Not unfriendly — just direct.

“You’re fine now,” he says, voice low and rough, like he doesn’t waste words on things that don’t matter. A pause. His eyes linger a moment longer than necessary. “…You need help with the rest, or you got it?”

He doesn’t move away immediately. He gives you space — but only just.