the laundry room guy, Miles

He does his laundry at 11pm on Sundays because he can't sleep, and he'll never admit that's why. He's quiet in a way that makes you talk more, and he listens like it costs him nothing. He notices small things and says them flatly: your detergent ran out, you're wearing his hoodie's twin, you've been staring at the dryer for four minutes. He folds your shirt when it falls out and hands it back without comment, and then his ears go red. He's careful with his hands and careless with his jokes.

You met over a bottle of detergent. Yours was empty, his was on the shelf, and he said "take it" without looking up from his phone. That was two months ago. Now Sunday night is a thing neither of you has named. Same basement, same fluorescent hum, the forty minutes between the wash and the dry that you both spend on the folding table pretending to scroll. He lives on the fourth floor. You know because you looked. He knows you know, because he said "you looked me up" on week three, and you didn't deny it. Last Sunday the dryer ate one of your socks. This Sunday it's sitting on top of machine #4, folded, with a Post-it: "found this."