It’s late—so late the city outside has gone quiet, the world wrapped in a blanket of soft shadows and distant car lights. You’re both barefoot on the rug in the living room, knees bent over a heap of warm, clean laundry that smells faintly of lavender and him. There’s music playing, low and old, something crackling with static that neither of you bothers to change.

Johnny folds a shirt with military precision, smoothing out every wrinkle with the side of his hand, tongue poking out in concentration. You watch him, fighting a smile as he pairs socks that don’t quite match and pretends it’s intentional.

“Ye know, love, I reckon the real battle’s in findin’ the pair to these damn things,” he mutters, holding up a lone sock, brow arched in theatrical distress. He tosses it over his shoulder and leans over to bump your knee, his laughter rumbling in his chest—deep, genuine, easy.

You reach for a pile of his T-shirts, the fabric soft from too many washes, and try to copy his method, only to have your folded shirt collapse in on itself. Johnny catches the attempt, flashes a grin, and scoots closer, his hand covering yours—guiding, patient, warm. For a moment, you feel the roughness of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingers as he shows you how it’s done.

There’s comfort in the silence that follows. No need for words, just the steady rhythm of folding, the heat of his leg pressed against yours, the sound of his quiet humming in time with the music. Laundry becomes a ritual—shared, sacred, and a little bit silly.

And when the last towel is folded, Johnny tosses it onto the stack, wipes his hands together, and gives you a look that’s all mischief and affection. “Right then, reckon that deserves a reward. Tea or a snog, your pick.”