Love in the Laundromat

Tarts, Rain, and a Chance Encounter

The next week passed in a way that felt suspiciously like peace, which was exactly why I did not trust it.

After the laundromat, Ethan became one of those annoyingly persistent thoughts that kept showing up at the edges of my day. Not enough to ruin my focus, not enough to make me dramatically stare out of café windows like a heroine in a badly lit series, but enough to irritate me. He texted in the mornings with things like a picture of a badly drawn coffee cup or a message that simply said, Are you awake, or are you fighting your enemies before breakfast? Which, to be fair, was a fair question for me as a person.

I would read his messages while I stood behind the counter in my café, one hand dusted with flour, the other reaching for trays of tarts cooling on the rack. Mango tarts, chocolate tarts, lemon bars, the usual tiny miracles I made with more stubbornness than talent, although people liked to pretend it was talent because stubbornness is less photogenic. Every time Ethan texted, I could feel the corner of my mouth twitching before I could stop it. It annoyed me that he was so easy to reply to. It annoyed me even more that he never seemed to try too hard.

Men who try too hard are often exhausting. Men who don’t try at all are usually worse. Ethan, somehow, landed in the exact terrifying middle where he seemed genuinely interested without acting like he was performing a romantic monologue for an audience. I did not know what to do with that.

By the end of the week, he had asked me out three times.

The first time, I said no because I was busy. That was true. The second time, I said maybe, which was not an answer, and he accepted it with the patience of a saint or a very tired man. The third time, I was halfway through icing a tart when he showed up at the café carrying a paper bag and looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

I was not expecting him.

Which was unfortunate, because he looked unfairly good in a plain white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark jeans that made him look like he had stepped out of a clean, responsible man's catalogue. That kind of outfit should have been illegal on someone with that face. I looked up from behind the counter and immediately hated that my brain had become so invested in his shoulder line.

“Are you stalking me?” I asked.

He placed the paper bag on the counter with careful hands. “That depends. Is bringing food now considered stalking?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, I’m stalking you.”

I gave him a look. “What is in that bag?”

“Dinner.”

“I didn’t ask for dinner.”

“I know. That’s why I brought it.”

I stared at him. He stared back with maddening calm, as if he was fully prepared to stand in front of me all day until I either laughed or surrendered. Behind me, Lala made a loud coughing sound that suspiciously resembled a laugh she was trying not to have. Traitor.

I narrowed my eyes. “You are very bold for a man who once needed help operating a washer.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he said.

I opened the paper bag and immediately smelled garlic, butter, and something warm and comforting enough to make me suspicious on principle.

“You cooked this?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“I know. I’m offended too, but here we are.”

I looked inside and found a neatly packed rice bowl, grilled chicken, vegetables, and a small container of sauce. It smelled too good. Suspiciously good. The kind of good that made me want to believe in a man’s character, which was dangerous because men have historically enjoyed disappointing me.

“You made this for me?”

He nodded once. “You said last night you hadn’t eaten properly.”

I blinked at him. “That was a passing complaint, not a request for domestic devotion.”

He looked faintly amused. “Still, you should eat.”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but the truth was I was touched. Deeply, annoyingly touched. That was the problem with kind men. They crept in through practical gestures. You expect grand declarations, and instead, they hand you food and remember things you said while pretending not to care.

“Are you always this responsible?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Sometimes I’m less charming.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“I was going for honest.”

I accepted the bag because I was hungry and because my willpower was made of rice paper. He smiled like he knew exactly what he had won, and I disliked how gentle that smile was.

Later, after the café emptied and the afternoon heat began to soften into evening, he insisted on walking me home. I told him that was unnecessary. He told me that it was irrelevant. I told him I was not fragile. He looked at me for a very long second and said, very quietly, “I know. That’s not why I’m walking with you.”

That should not have done anything to me. It did.

We ended up at the small 24-hour convenience store near my apartment because I needed milk and he needed, apparently, to prove he could carry two grocery bags without looking like he was auditioning for a domestic role. It was becoming increasingly clear that Ethan Garcia was the kind of man who took responsibility seriously in a way that made my skin feel slightly betrayed.

At the cashier, he noticed I was holding two kinds of cereal and said, “You’re buying both?”

“I’m deciding who I am in this economy.”

He took one look at the overpriced imported box in my hand and said, “You do not need the cereal with a cartoon astronaut on it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s fifteen pesos more for nostalgia.”

“I like nostalgia.”

“You like suffering.”

I nearly choked on a laugh. The cashier glanced at us like we were a strange married couple pretending not to be one. I hated how much I liked that.

Outside, the sky had turned a deep gray-blue, the kind that made the city lights look softer. The first drops of rain touched the pavement as we stepped out, and Ethan immediately shifted closer to the curb so I wouldn’t get splashed by passing tricycles. It was such a small thing, so automatic, that I almost missed it.

Almost.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Walking you home.”

“I mean the dramatic curb thing.”

He glanced at me. “It’s raining.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s practical.”

“You are obsessed with being practical.”

“Someone has to be.”

I looked at him, and despite myself, I smiled. “You know, you’re very serious for a man who once almost lost a sock to a washing machine.”

He gave me a flat look. “That sock had no respect for boundaries.”

I laughed, loud enough that a passing pedestrian looked over. Ethan’s expression softened when he heard it, and I hated that my heart noticed. He was not the type to make a scene, not the type to chase attention. He was steady in a way that felt unfamiliar. Not flashy. Not performative. Just there. Present. Real.

The rain picked up by the time we reached my building. I turned toward him at the gate, ready to make a joke and send him home before he got any ideas about becoming important in my life.

He beat me to it.

“I know you think I’m trying too hard,” he said, the words calm but direct. “I’m not. I just like being around you.”

I stared at him.

He continued, because apparently he had decided to be brave at the worst possible time. “You’re funny, even when you’re trying not to be. You’re sharp. You make everything around you feel more alive. And I like that. A lot.”

I had no idea what to do with that. My first instinct was to make fun of him because vulnerability is terrifying and sarcasm is cheaper. But his voice was so sincere that it made my usual defenses feel a little childish.

“So you’re just going to say things like that in the rain?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Bold.”

“I’ve been told.”

The silence that followed was not awkward. It was worse. It was the kind that sits between two people when both of them know something is changing, and neither of them wants to be the first to name it.

Then Ethan reached out, hesitated, and brushed a strand of wet hair from my face with the gentlest movement I had ever seen from a man who looked like he could probably argue with a contractor into changing a building’s foundation.

“You should go inside,” he said.

I frowned. “Are you telling me what to do?”

“No,” he said, and his mouth curved a little. “I’m pretending to be sensible.”

That made me laugh again, which seemed to be his greatest talent so far.

I stepped back under the awning, clutching my grocery bag and trying very hard not to look at him the way a woman looks at bad decisions that might actually be good for her. He stood in the rain for a second longer than necessary, watching me with that quiet, serious expression of his, like he was trying not to overstep and failing only because he cared.

Then he lifted a hand in a small wave and turned to leave.

I watched him walk away, rain darkening his shirt, shoulders steady, steps unhurried. For one ridiculous second, I had the clear and horrifying thought that Ethan Garcia was becoming the kind of man women wrote about in their private diaries and then denied later.

I hated that thought.

I hated even more that I smiled all the way upstairs.