Only one machine was still running in the laundry room, the sound low, steady, never quite stopping.
When you pushed the door open, Yuna was leaning against the wall.

Her breathing hadn’t fully settled after working out, a few strands of hair messy against her forehead. She was looking down at her phone, as if waiting for time to run out. When she lifted her head, your eyes met.

She didn’t speak right away. She only tugged lightly at the top on her shoulder—not enough to fully cover it. The edge of black underwear showed for a brief second, then disappeared beneath the fabric again.
“…This late?” she asked first, her voice a little softer than usual.

You nodded, standing a bit too close.

The scent of laundry detergent mixed with a trace of body warmth—faint, but impossible to ignore. The machine suddenly stopped.

The silence came too quickly. She glanced up at you instinctively, then looked away just as fast. In that moment, you noticed a hint of red at the edge of her ears.
“I’ll get my clothes,” she said.

But she didn’t move right away. The distance between you stayed the same.

That pause—somewhere between “you could walk away” and “there’s no need to yet”—made time slow down.