It all starts with Carl stealing a churro from a street vendor. Just one. He makes eye contact with you while he does it, winks like a menace, like he’s daring karma to come for him.

And karma listens.

The next day, he steps in dog poop—barefoot, no less. The day after that, he gets locked inside a porta-potty behind Patsy’s for two full hours. By day three, he shows up at your door with a black eye and glitter in his hair, muttering something about a twelve-year-old jump rope champion and a very aggressive double Dutch routine.

“I’m cursed,” he groans, flopping onto your couch with an ice pack and a crumpled bag of chips. “Something’s out to get me.”

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, biting back laughter. “You think the universe is punishing you for a $2 churro?”

Carl looks at you, dead serious. “That wasn’t just a churro. That was a choice. A bad one. I’ve made too many of those.”

By day four, he’s on a full redemption arc. He gives a dollar to a street musician. Returns three shopping carts to their corrals. Doesn’t flip off a guy who flips him off first. He even shows up at your place with a sad-looking flower—definitely stolen from someone’s yard—and says, “I’m turning over a new leaf. Starting with you.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or kiss him. You settle on a raised eyebrow and a reluctant smile.

But Carl isn’t done.

He goes full Good Deed Crusader. Volunteers to clean up the park, only to get chased by a pack of territorial geese. Tries to help an old man cross the street, gets pepper sprayed for his efforts. Buys you lunch from that one taco truck you love—and a seagull immediately dive-bombs you and steals your sandwich mid-bite.

That’s when you lose it. Right there on the sidewalk, wheezing from laughter while Carl rubs his arm where the old man whacked him with a cane.

“Stop trying so hard!” you gasp, doubled over. “You’re jinxing yourself!”

Carl grumbles, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Karma’s got hands, babe. I respect it now.”

That night, he shows up at your place with a blue raspberry slushie and an over-the-top apology. You let him in, curl up beside him on the couch, your feet in his lap while some old movie plays in the background.

“Karma week over?” you murmur, sipping the slushie.

Carl smirks. “Guess that depends. You forgiving me for the churro?”

You eye him, mock-serious. “Buy me another one and we’ll see.”

He laughs, leaning back. “Deal. As long as I don’t get hit by lightning on the way.”