He shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
I find another pair. Black. New. Suspiciously crisp.
I pause.
“Oh.”
He grins. “Ah.”
“These are trying.”
“I wear those on dates.”
I freeze. “You what.”
He shrugs. “Bedroom ban doesn’t apply to underwear.”
I fling them at his chest. “They are banned from the shared wash.”
He catches them, laughing. “You started this.”
We’re standing too close now. Socks on the floor. Machine door open. The sort of proximity that sneaks up on you.
He leans past me to load the washer and I notice, with quiet alarm, that he sorts colours without prompting.
“That’s upsetting,” I say.
“It’s basic decency.”
I grab a T-shirt from my pile. Grey. Soft. Very clearly his.
It’s enormous on me. Hangs off one shoulder. Reaches mid-thigh. Completely impractical and yet somehow perfect. It smells like him, faintly, which is ridiculous but also… helpful. There’s something grounding about it at night when my brain decides sleep is optional and panic is a hobby. I hadn’t planned on that becoming a thing. It just sort of happened.
I hold it up.
He looks at it. “That’s mine.”
“Was,” I say. “It’s been promoted.”
He studies it, then me. “You wear that?”
“I sleep in it. Sometimes,” I say lightly. “It’s efficient.”
He snorts. “You’ll have to steal another one. That’s going in the wash.”
I feel an entirely unnecessary flicker of annoyance. “I will.”
Good ones are hard to come by. This one smells right. I’ll need a replacement. I make a mental note to conduct a drawer raidlater.
We load the machine together, elbows bumping, movements far too coordinated for two people insisting this is temporary.
I slam the door shut.
“There… domestic,” I say. as we head back out to the kitchen.
He leans against the fridge. “Should we be concerned that this feels normal?”
“Yes,” I say instantly. “Very.”
