Bent over the washer, moving wet clothes into the dryer, her back to me.
My brain tries to count something—anything—to stay grounded.
Steps to the washer: One. Two. Three. Four. Good.
Her movements: Reach, grab, transfer. Reach, grab, transfer. Three beats. Odd. Lucky? Unlucky?
Breathe: Four counts in. Can’t hold it. Three counts out.
Pattern’s breaking down.
The air in the room is hot and damp from the machines. I can smell cherry blossoms and laundry detergent and underneath that—her.
All my careful patterns dissolve.
She’s wearing yoga pants and a cropped tank top that reveals a sliver of skin at her waist every time she moves. There’s a tattoo just above her waistband—something delicate, maybe a name, maybe a phrase—but I can’t see it clearly. I want to get closer. Read it. Learn it by heart. Trace it with my tongue.
Harper’s shower-wet hair is piled on top of her head in a loose bun, a few curls escaping to brush the nape of her neck. Her skin glows with sweat and heat. I want to press my mouth there. Just once. Just enough to know what she tastes like in the morning, when she’s flushed and warm and we’re not trying to pretend we’re normal in front of our parents at the breakfast table.
She hears me and straightens up. Then turns.
She’s holding an armful of damp clothes, her cheeks pink, and she’s breathing a little too fast for laundry. My own breathing matches hers without permission.
We just… look at each other.
Every bit of discipline I’ve spent years building—gone. Like someone cut the power.
I should say something. Anything. But my head’s full of heat and the smell of her, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough for this.
“Oh. Hey.” Her voice catches, soft and uncertain. There’s something else there besides just surprise. Something that hits low in my gut and tightens everything at once. She looks at my mouth for half a second beforeglancing away, biting her lip like she’s trying to swallow whatever she’s feeling.
She’s glad I’m here, I think. Nervous, but glad.
Like maybe she’s thinking about last night too—about how we fit together in her bed and how she tucked herself under my chin like she belonged there.
How we said we were falling for each other. Does she even remember through the drug haze?
“Sorry,” I say, setting my basket down. My voice comes out rough. Too rough. “Didn’t know anyone was down here. I can come back.”
I don’t want to.
Please don’t tell me to leave.
She leans over to put the wet clothes in the dryer and clicks it on. “It’s fine.” Soft. A little breathless. Her eyes slide away from mine, but not far.
The dryer hums louder in the silence. The air feels hotter now. Heavier.
“Oh, I missed one.” She reaches into the washer again, and the shirt she pulls out slips from her hands, landing on the floor between us.
We both reach for it at the same time.
Our hands brush.
And then we’re crouched on the cold basement floor, faces inches apart, her palm under mine.
Everything else fades.
I can see the exact shade of her eyes—green with flecks of gold. Her lips are parted, like she’s about to say something but forgot how. Her minty breath ghosts over my cheek, and my whole body goes tight.