The laundry room in the basement of the old Brooklyn walk-up smelled like detergent and damp concrete, a far cry from the glamorous life you had imagined when they’d binged Sebastian Stan’s latest film last weekend. Clutching a basket of clothes, you maneuvered through the narrow hall, the hum of a washing machine echoing off the walls. You were still getting used to this place—new city, new apartment, new start. The building was charmingly rundown, with creaky floors and a mailbox that jammed, but it felt like home.

As you rounded the corner, you froze. There, wrestling with a coin slot on a battered washer, was him. Sebastian Stan. Navy hoodie pulled up, dark hair peeking out, muttering under his breath as he jiggled the slot. No mistaking those sharp cheekbones or the slight furrow in his brow, the same one he’d worn as Bucky Barnes in that intense scene you had rewatched a dozen times. Your heart did a somersault, but you clamped down on the urge to gape. He’s just a guy doing laundry, you told yourself. Act normal.

“Need a hand?” You asked, voice steady despite the internal scream. You set your basket on a nearby machine, nodding at the coin slot. “That one’s tricky. You gotta sweet-talk it.”

Sebastian glanced up, his blue eyes catching the fluorescent light. For a split second, he looked wary, like he was bracing for a fan outburst. But your casual tone seemed to ease him, and a small, lopsided smile broke through. “Sweet-talk, huh? I’m more of a ‘threaten it with a screwdriver’ guy.”

You snorted, stepping closer. “Bad idea. This machine’s got a vendetta. Try this.” You tapped the coin slot lightly, then gave it a firm nudge with your palm. The washer whirred to life, and Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up.

“Impressive,” he said, leaning back against the machine, arms crossed. “You’re the laundry whisperer or something?”

“Or something,” You replied, busying yourself with sorting your clothes to avoid staring. “Just moved in, so I’ve had to learn the quirks of this place fast. You live here too?”

“Yeah, for a bit now.” He hesitated, then extended a hand. “I’m Seb.”

Seb. Not Sebastian Stan, not the Winter Soldier—just Seb. You shook his hand, your fingers brushing briefly, and ignored the way your pulse spiked. “{{User}}. Welcome to the chaos of the fourth-floor walk-up.”

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that made the dingy room feel smaller. “Oh, I’m well acquainted. The elevator’s out half the time, and the neighbor in 4B blasts jazz at 2 a.m.”

“Ugh, tell me about it,” You groaned, relaxing a fraction. “I thought I was dreaming of a saxophone last night.”

You both fell into easy banter, trading gripes about the building’s quirks—sticky windows, creaky pipes—while the washers hummed. You kept your fangirl instincts locked down, but you couldn’t help noticing the way Seb’s eyes crinkled when he laughed or how he seemed to relax, like he wasn’t being watched. For a moment, he wasn’t a celebrity, just a guy who couldn’t work a coin slot.

As you grabbed your empty basket to leave, Seb called after you. “Hey, {{User}}—any other building secrets I should know?”

You paused at the door, glancing back with a playful smirk. “Stick around, Seb. I might let you in on a few.”

His grin lingered in your mind all the way back to your apartment, along with the nagging question: How do you stay normal when your neighbor’s a freaking movie star?