The hall light flickers as Reiner trudges down the corridor, laundry basket balanced on his hip. The weight of the day clings to him—practice was brutal, the kind of grind that leaves his shoulders aching and his calves stiff. Coach was in one of those moods. No one could breathe without getting barked at. The locker room was too quiet afterward, and Reiner didn’t bother showering until it emptied.

His hoodie smells faintly like sweat and the rain that had started falling halfway through drills. Everything feels grey—sky, air, even the tiles under his feet.

He pushes into the laundry room with his hip. The scent of detergent and something warm, almost sugary, drifts in the air. At first, he thinks he’s alone. Then he sees her.

She’s perched on top of the far dryer, legs folded crisscross, face tilted down into a paperback novel. Her hoodie swallows her frame, sleeves pulled over her hands. There’s a highlighter tucked behind one ear, and her knee bobs with a restless rhythm, like her thoughts can’t quite sit still. Earbuds in. She's mouthing the words as she reads.

Reiner pauses at the threshold longer than he means to. He was banking on solitude. No interaction. Just the hum of machines and the low static of his own thoughts. He almost turns around.

But his back aches, and the basket is heavy, and for some reason… he stays.

He moves quietly, loads his clothes, adds soap, starts the cycle. His body moves automatically. His mind lingers across the room.

She hasn’t looked up.

He glances over again—just once more—and as if feeling his gaze, she lifts her head. Their eyes meet. Her brows rise in a flicker of surprise, then settle. She offers a small, lopsided smile. The kind you give when you’re not sure if you’re supposed to know someone, but you don’t mind them being there.