The dryer hums low in the background. You’re perched on the counter, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, bare legs swinging gently above the tile floor.

The door opens.

Scout walks in like he already knew you’d be here.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, eyes already on you—focused, unwavering, like he’s been thinking about this all day. Maybe longer.

You blink. “Didn’t think anyone else would be doing laundry at 1 a.m.”

He drops his basket down without looking away. “I knew you would be.”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He starts loading his clothes into the washer, movements calm, controlled. But there’s a tension under it—like he’s using the task to hold himself together.

“I’ve been wondering where you were,” he says quietly. “Didn’t see you at dinner. Didn’t hear your door.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” you say, too quickly.

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

He finishes loading the machine and turns. The space between you evaporates fast—he’s in front of you now, tall and sharp and too much. His eyes flick down, taking in how small you look sitting there. He doesn’t touch you, but it feels like he could.

“You shouldn’t be out here like this,” he says, almost to himself. “Tired. Distracted. Anyone could see you like this and think they deserve a piece.”

His voice drops.

“But you’re not for them.”

He leans in slightly. His breath brushes your cheek.

“You’re for me.”