Episode Four
1392 Words
**Chapter 4: The Laundry Incident**
The war resumed at 11:47 p.m. over a sock.
Specifically, Claire’s black, fingerless glove. The one she’d been wearing to protect her stitches. It had somehow migrated from her laundry basket into Daniel’s. And from there, into a load of his white dress shirts.
The result was a crime scene.
Daniel stood in the laundry room holding a shirt that was now a tragic shade of grief. “This was Egyptian cotton,” he said. Like he was announcing a death in the family.
“It’s still cotton,” Claire said, leaning against the doorframe. Her stitches were out, but her hand was still stiff. “Now it’s goth cotton. Very in. You’ll be trending.”
“You ruined twelve shirts.”
“You own forty-two identical white shirts. This is called character development.”
He turned the shirt over. The black dye had bled in a pattern that looked suspiciously like a handprint. Her handprint.
“This is a $400 shirt.”
“It’s a $400 rag now. Congrats on your downgrade.”
Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose. It was his tell for *I am trying not to schedule your murder*. “I don’t have time for this. I have a call with London at midnight.”
“So cancel it. London will still be there tomorrow. Unlike your shirts.”
He looked at her. Really looked. She was in old sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. It hung off her shoulder. She’d stolen it three days ago and never gave it back. He hadn’t asked for it back.
“Fine,” he said. “New rule. We do our own laundry.”
“You don’t know how to do laundry.”
“I’m a CEO. I can learn a household appliance.”
“Last week you tried to microwave a hard drive because it was ‘running slow.’”
“That was one time.”
It was not one time.
---
At 12:03 a.m., Daniel Hart, CEO of Meridian Group, was staring at the washing machine like it had personally insulted his mother.
“Why are there three compartments,” he said. “There should be one. For clothes. That’s the system.”
Claire sat on the dryer, legs swinging. “Detergent. Softener. Bleach. It’s not calculus.”
“It’s inefficient design.” He held up a bottle. “What is ‘delicates’? Are my shirts delicate? They survived two mergers.”
“You’re going to kill them.”
He ignored her. Poured detergent with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. Started the machine. It made a sound like a jet engine preparing for takeoff.
“See?” he said. “Handled.”
The machine began to shake. Then rattle. Then walk.
Claire started laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full, surprised, snort-through-her-nose laugh that echoed off the tile.
Daniel turned to her. “What.”
“Your washer is escaping,” she wheezed. “It hates you.”
He looked at the machine. It had moved six inches. “It’s off balance.”
“It’s offended.”
He hit buttons. The machine beeped angrily. Claire laughed harder and slid off the dryer. She bumped his hip with hers to move him aside.
“Step aside, Spreadsheet. This is an art.”
She redistributed the clothes, added half the detergent he’d used, turned a dial. The machine settled. Hummed. Behaved.
Daniel watched her. “You learned this where?”
“College. Broke. Had to choose between laundry and ramen. I chose ramen and figured it out.” She paused, pulling her knee up to rest her foot on the edge of the machine. Her sweatpants rode up.
There was a scar on her knee. Small, round, silver in the overhead light.
Daniel’s eyes caught on it. “What happened.”
“Field hockey,” Claire said. “Took a stick to the knee freshman year. Had to get stitches. Yelled at the EMT because he called it a ‘boo-boo.’”
A corner of his mouth did the thing. The prelude to a smile. “Of course you did.”
“What about yours,” she said, nodding to his cheek. “You never did say how you really got the scar.”
He was quiet for a second. The washer churned. The room smelled like detergent and warm lint.
“My dad,” he said finally. Not looking at her. “Before he left. I was twelve. He threw a glass. I didn’t duck fast enough.”
Claire went very still. The funny drained out of the room. Something heavier took its place.
“Daniel.”
“I told you I walked into a filing cabinet,” he said. Still not looking at her. “That was easier.”
“Yeah,” she said. Soft. “Easier isn’t true though.”
He looked at her then. And for once, his eyes weren’t flat. They weren’t CEO eyes. They were just tired. And honest.
She reached out with her good hand. Not to his face. That was too much. She tapped his forearm. Once. Solid.
“For the record,” she said. “Your dad was an idiot.”
The prelude smile became a real one. Small. Rusty. Like he didn’t use it often. “Statistically, yes.”
The washer beeped. Cycle done.
Claire opened it. Started pulling clothes out. One of his sweaters had made it into the load. It was now doll-sized.
She held it up. “Daniel. Did you wash your wool on hot?”
He looked at the sweater. Then at her. Then back at the sweater.
“It was… cold?”
Claire bit her lip. Lost the fight. Burst out laughing again. “You shrunk your sweater. You absolute disaster. This is why we can’t have nice things.”
He took the tiny sweater from her. Stretched it. It did nothing.
“I liked that sweater,” he said, mournful.
“You liked having forty-three identical sweaters. Now you have forty-two and one for a chihuahua.”
He looked at her laughing. Really looked. At the way her eyes crinkled. At the way she was holding her stomach like it hurt. At the way she looked in his t-shirt, in his laundry room, at midnight.
And he did something not in the contract.
He laughed too.
Not a chuckle. Not a polite exhale. A real laugh. Quiet, surprised out of him. It changed his whole face.
Claire stopped laughing. Just stared.
“What,” he said.
“Nothing,” she said. “You should do that more.”
“What. Laundry?”
“Laugh, you idiot.”
He stepped closer. Took the tiny sweater from her and tossed it on top of the dryer. His hand brushed hers. He didn’t pull back.
“Clause 6,” he said. Voice low. “No ambushes.”
“This isn’t an ambush,” Claire said. “This is a tutorial. You’re very bad at it.”
“Am I.”
“Yeah.” She looked up at him. The laundry room was warm. The machine was ticking as it cooled. “You’re failing laundry. And feelings. And not touching me when you want to.”
His breath hitched. The CEO mask slipped all the way off.
“Claire.”
“Daniel.”
He reached up. Not to her face. Not yet. He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her jaw. It was barely a touch. It was everything.
“We’re at day 23,” he said.
“I’m counting.”
“If we break the contract—”
“We won’t,” she said. “Not yet.”
Yet. That word again.
She stepped back. Picked up the basket of damp clothes. “You owe me twelve shirts. I accept payment in the form of you learning what a delicates cycle is.”
He exhaled. Like he’d been holding it since the board dinner. “Noted.”
She went to leave. Stopped at the door.
“Hey. Hart.”
He looked up.
“For the record,” she said. “You’re not a spreadsheet.”
He didn’t answer. But his ears went red.
She left him in the laundry room with a tiny sweater and a smile he didn’t know how to hide.
---
- Writer
