She looked at me like I'd just insulted her entire existence. "Why is that funny?"
"It's not funny," I said quickly, shaking my head while navigating through a yellow light. "It's just unexpected. You do laundry at work to save money."
Her chin lifted slightly. “You think that’s amusing?”
“No, I don't think that,” I said honestly while merging onto the highway. The traffic thinned as we moved forward. "I think it's resourceful. Smart, actually."
She studied my face closely, like she was deciding whether I was mocking her or not.
"I have a washer and dryer at home," I added after a moment. "You're welcome to use them whenever you need to."
Her face brightened.
It wasn’t a polite smile or forced gratitude. She truly lit up, as if I had handed her something rare instead of access to an appliance most people never thought twice about.
"Really?" Surprise filled her voice. Then she lowered it, like she didn't want to seem too eager. "That would be incredible. Thank you."
“It’s just a washing machine. Not a gift.”
She smiled anyway, warm and unguarded. "Still appreciate it."
I didn't respond. I simply kept driving, watching the city transform around us.
When I glanced at her again a few minutes later, she'd turned her attention to the window. Her grip on the bag had loosened, fingers resting gently instead of clutching desperately. She had relaxed without realizing it.
The financial district rose around us as we sat in comfortable silence. Glass towers caught the afternoon sun and threw it back in blinding sheets of light. Pedestrians in tailored suits moved purposefully, phones pressed to ears, coffee cups in hand. Everyone looked late for something important. This part of the city never slowed down.
I pulled up in front of my building and handed the keys to Marcus at the valet stand.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Cross,” he greeted.
“Marcus.” I nodded and walked around to Mireya’s side, but she’d already stepped out of the car, her bag slung over her shoulder. Her gaze traveled upward along the glass façade, taking in the full height of the building.
Then her face went completely blank. It was back to that carefully neutral expression medical professionals wore when confronted with something overwhelming.
"Welcome back, Dr. Cross," Richard called warmly from the front desk as I led Mireya through the lobby.
“Thank you, Richard.”
Mireya followed a step behind me, her worn sneakers silent against the polished marble floor. I walked toward the private elevator at the back, the one that required a key card and never stopped for anyone else.
She stepped inside and moved immediately to the far corner. Her eyes fixed on the wall. Her fingers crept back to the strap of her bag.
I stood on the opposite side and said nothing.
The doors slid shut.
It was a long ride to the fortieth floor. I had never noticed that before.
The elevator was not small, exactly, but she had made herself so compact against the wall that the space between us feltdeliberately measured. Like she was aware of it. Like she was being careful.
I looked straight ahead at the brushed steel doors and watched her reflection in them instead.
She was doing the same thing I was. Staring forward. Not looking. Very deliberately not looking.
The elevator hummed upward and the city dropped away below us and neither of us said a word and the silence had a texture to it that I could not quite name. Not uncomfortable. Something else. Something I was not going to examine in an enclosed space forty floors above the ground with her standing six feet away smelling faintly of hospital soap and something warmer underneath it.
I cleared my throat.
