Chapter Text
“Urgh,” you groan, heavy clothes basket digging into your hip as you enter the laundry room. You would definitely bruise later.
It wasn’t your fault you had to pick up some extra shifts and didn’t have time to do laundry. For a month. A girl has to have time for beauty sleep…and for her Netflix fix and girls’ night out!
Huge pile of clothes teetering in front of you, your foot gets stuck in a divot in the linoleum. With a yelp, you barely catch yourself before you turn the place into a party where the piñata was filled with dirty undies.
The glass door schnicks open behind you.
“Woah, you need some help with that?” A male voice says.
“Um,” you hesitate, barely balancing the huge load, “I think I’ve got it..”
Approaching the washer, you drop the hamper and it lands with a resounding smack. Wiping the sweat back into your frazzled hair, you straighten your shimmery gold cocktail dress—the only clean thing left in your closet—and turn toward the stranger.
“Thanks, though…” The words die on your lips.
Before you, smiling sheepishly, one arm holding a basket full of clothes and the other rubbing the back of his neck, is your fucking adorable neighbor. Stan? No! Steve! That was his name. His shirt strains against his wide shoulders and round, muscular chest, and his sweatpants barely hide his dick pri—
“You going to a party?” he asks, interrupting your thought. He grins as he looks you up and down, a faint pink tinging his cheeks.
“What?” You glance down at yourself. “Oh! Er, no, I just… Laundry day?” You offer weakly as explanation.
His blue eyes drift over to your huge pile of dirty clothes, one perfect eyebrow raising. “Been a while, huh?” His pink cheeks deepen and color, and you’re sure yours must match his by now. “Since you did laundry, I mean,” he clarifies quickly.
You laugh under your breath, grimacing with a shrug. “Girls got better things to do than launder her ensembles, ya know?”
He chuckles. “I know exactly what you mean.” His expression turns serious. “Life gets in the way.”
Your eyes fall on a pile of dark clothing laying innocently on the floor between the two of you. Steve’s gaze seems to follow yours to the coil of purple lace.
Oh, god. Oh, god, no. Not those. Any pair of underwear but those.
Like watching a slow motion train wreck, Steve takes a step forward, bending down to retrieve the dropped clothing, just like a gentleman. He holds them in front of him, offering them to you.
“You dropped…” His eyes focus on the dangling scrap in front of him—your most revealing thong, a monstrosity of lace purple butterflies and a string that nestles right between your buns like a book slides right into an opening on the book shelf. “…this.”
The burning in your cheeks is nearly unbearable as you snatch the thong from him, throwing it into the washer. “Thanks,” you squeak.
He clears his throat, frozen.
“I’m Y/N, by the way. Figure I better introduce myself since you’ve already seen my underwear and all.”
“Ah, sorry. How rude of me. Steve,” he introduces, holding out a hand. You shake it, and his palm is a bit…sweaty.
“Yeah, we’re neighbors, right? Thought I recognized you.”
He sets his basket down in front of a washer finally, loading his clothes into it. You take his cue and do the same.
“Yeah, I’m in B6,” he says, throwing sweat-stained shirts and…is that a red, white, and blue mask?...into the washing machine. “You’re…?”
“B4,” you tell him with a smile, finishing up and putting your quarters into the machine. It whirs to life, the woosh of water filling the drum interrupting the room’s quiet.
Lifting the now empty basket, you place it on top of the washer and head for the door, unable to get out of there fast enough. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Steve.”
He straightens, turning to face you. “Hey, if you, um, need help carrying that back to your place later, you can always give my door a knock…er, knock on my door.”
You open your mouth to answer.
“Not that you can’t carry it, but if you wanted—“
You laugh at his uncertainty. Since when do guys with looks like that get so nervous about flirting? Steve really is a piece of work.
“I’d love that,” you tell him. “I’ll see you in”—you glance at the timer on the washing machine—“90 minutes.”
He grins, his whole face lighting up. “Can’t wait.”
You push through the door, your smile—and the butterflies in your stomach—uncontainable.