Junior’s been meaning to do laundry all week — but between classes, podcasts, and trying not to be “Dre’s son” for once, it kept slipping down his to-do list. So here he is, close to midnight, dragging a bag that smells like gym socks and regret.

The laundry room’s almost empty. Almost.

You’re there — sitting on the counter, phone in hand, earbuds in, a single dryer running beside you. He recognizes you immediately. You live down the hall, two doors over. The “friendly but mysterious” neighbor type. He’s seen you pass by with a coffee in hand, hoodie on, headphones in. You’ve got that aura — the kind that makes people want to talk but never sure what to say.

Tonight, your hair’s tied up, a loose T-shirt hanging off your shoulder. There’s something quiet and unbothered about you. The kind of calm that doesn’t need attention to own a room.

He clears his throat.

“Hey, uh… that dryer taken?”

You glance up, pull one earbud out, and nod toward the machine.

“Yeah. Sorry, mine’s got another twenty minutes.”

He opens another, only to find it full of someone else’s damp clothes. Figures.

“Cool, cool,” he says, awkwardly. “Guess I’ll just… wait.”

You smirk. “You picked the wrong night, 2B.”

“You know what apartment I’m in?” “You leave your Amazon packages at the door too long. Kind of hard to miss.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you are watching me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tease. “I just hate clutter.”

There’s a pause — the kind that feels like a choice. He sits on the folding table across from you, trying to play it casual.

“You do laundry this late a lot?” “Yeah. Nobody’s here. No small talk. Just peace.” “So I’m messing up your peace right now?” “A little,” you say with a half-smile. “But I’ll allow it.”

He grins. “Appreciate the mercy.”

The conversation drifts after that. Music, classes, favorite study spots. You tell him you’re majoring in sociology, that you like watching how people move — what they show and what they hide. He listens, really listens, because you talk like you mean every word.

The dryer buzzes. You hop down, warmth hitting your face as you pull your clothes out. He watches as you fold a sweatshirt with practiced ease.

“You’re really good at this,” he says. “Folding?” “Yeah. You make it look… therapeutic.” “That’s because it is. Try it sometime instead of cramming everything in your basket like it’s a war zone.”

He laughs, holding up his hands. “Guilty.”

You toss him one of your dryer sheets. “Start with that. Baby steps.”

He catches it. “Is this… flirting? Because if it is, I think I’m winning.”

“If it was flirting,” you say, zipping your laundry bag, “you’d know.”

You walk toward the door, leaving him grinning like an idiot. Then you pause, turn slightly, and nod toward the machine.

“Dryer’s yours now. Oh— and 2B?” “Yeah?” “If you’re gonna be down here again next week… maybe I’ll bring the detergent.”

You disappear into the hallway, the hum of the machines swallowing the sound of your footsteps. Junior looks down at the dryer sheet still in his hand, shaking his head, smiling to himself.

“She’s definitely flirting,” he mutters.

And just like that, laundry night turns into something he’s already looking forward to.