There's something deeply humbling about sharing a laundry bench with a man who's seen your Star Wars boxers and still wants to talk to you.
Evan, to his credit, hasn't said a single word about them. Not even a joke. Which either makes him a gentleman or someone who's seen weirder laundry.
"So," he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the dryer beside us. "What do you do? When you're not scalding strangers or doing laundry."
I snort. "I'm a barista-slash-unemployed-photographer."
His eyebrow lifts. "Unemployed as in freelance, or unemployed as in 'my camera's in a shoebox and I haven't looked at it since my last breakdown'?"
"Rude," I say, though he's not wrong. "Mostly the second. I still take photos, just… not for money."
"Why not?"
I shrug. "It's complicated. I lost my groove, I guess."
"You make it sound like photography is a dance move."
"Have you ever tried directing a bride and her eight cousins in the middle of a heatwave while someone's aunt keeps blinking in every shot? It is a dance move. A sweaty, soul-sapping one."
He laughs, and I realize I like his laugh. It's not big or flashy—it's quiet, like he's not used to using it often. Like it's a surprise even to him.
"What about you?" I ask, needing to redirect before I accidentally start monologuing about wedding trauma. "What do you do?"
"I'm… technically between jobs."
I blink. "Wow. Same brand of chaos."
"It's temporary," he adds. "I just moved here for a fresh start. Took some time off after quitting a job I hated."
"That's either brave or financially reckless."
"Little of both."
Our eyes meet for a second too long.
Then the washer beeps and saves me from saying something dumb like Same hat, different chaos! or Do you believe in cosmic coincidences?
I start unloading my laundry and he steps in to help, like we're a domestic sitcom couple from an alternate universe where first meetings start with public embarrassment and end with folded towels.
"So," I say, trying to be casual. "Since I'm your laundry hero now, are you finally going to let me buy you coffee?"
He pauses, a sock in his hand.
"Only if we call it a truce coffee. Not a pity coffee."
I smirk. "Deal. I'll even throw in a biscotti if you promise not to spill anything this time."
He offers a hand. "It's a date."
My heart stumbles over itself—but I shake his hand anyway, pretending it's totally normal for my stomach to do an Olympic-level cartwheel.
As I carry my laundry basket toward the stairs, I realize something deeply concerning.
I might actually like this man.
Like, like-like him.
Which is ridiculous.
Because he's not my type.
Right?
…Right?
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