It was 11:14 on a Tuesday morning, and the last place Elliot Finch wanted to be was a laundromat. Specifically, Suds & Serenity on the corner of Maple and 7th, a place that smelled like lavender-scented dryer sheets and existential despair. His washing machine at home had died a dramatic death the night before, gurgling its final rinse cycle like a dying whale. So here he was, lugging a neon-green IKEA bag full of socks and shame.

“Wait,” Elliot said, surprising himself. “I don’t have your number.”

“Worst so far,” she corrected cheerfully, finally getting to her feet. She dusted off her corduroy blazer, which now had a wet patch shaped like Florida. “But don’t worry. I’m about to fix that.”

She tripped over the IKEA bag.

Elliot was a data analyst. He liked spreadsheets, silence, and the predictable hum of his own apartment. Laundromats were chaos: the clatter of dryers, the territorial standoffs over folding tables, the unsolvable mystery of where matching socks actually go. He found an empty machine near the window, fed it quarters like a reluctant slot machine player, and sat down with his laptop.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Elliot said.

Elliot looked down. He did. He had no idea how long it had been there. He had walked through the entire laundromat, past the barista next door, and probably down the entire block with a fluttering white flag of incompetence trailing behind him.

That’s when she arrived.