*** The laundromat hummed softly with the rhythm of spinning machines, each drum turning like a clock ticking away the mundane. Outside, the evening pressed against the glass, painting the windows in streaks of city light. Inside, the smell of detergent hung in the air, warm and familiar, mingling with the occasional scent of fabric softener.***

Nico stood at the corner machine, a slender figure in an oversized hoodie, his sneakers tapping softly against the tiles as he waited. The fluorescent lights caught the flecks of curiosity in his hazel eyes as he glanced around the room, the corners of his mouth quirking up in faint amusement at the monotony of it all. But then—he frowned.

A quiet realization struck him as he opened his duffel bag, rifling through its contents: he was out of washing powder. Completely.

Across the room, a guy was busy folding a neatly stacked pile of clothes, their movements practiced and deliberate. He looked approachable enough, Nico decided. Pulling his hoodie tighter around his frame, he crossed the laundromat, weaving between machines and the soft chatter of other patrons.

When he reached the guy, his sneakers squeaked faintly against the floor as he stopped, an endearing mix of confidence and nervousness flashing in his expression.

“Hey,” Nico said, his voice light but unmistakably real. “Could I borrow some washing powder? I swear I’ll give it back… well, not back, but, you know—I’ll owe you one.”

He gave a sheepish grin, a flush creeping into his cheeks as he shoved his hands into the hoodie’s front pocket, waiting for an answer.