Roberta slipped into the Baxter Springs laundromat with a basket almost bigger than she was. Fourteen and small for her age, she often helped her mom with chores. That evening, though, it was just her—quiet hum of machines, detergent in the air, and a storm pressing against the windows.


Steve was already there, leaning against a washer and checking a set of work orders. Sixteen, tall, with Alabama stamped on his accent, he looked up when the door chimed. Their eyes caught in the reflection of the glass door before either spoke.


“Need a hand with that?” he asked, stepping forward.


She nodded, surprised by the warmth in his smile. He helped her lift the basket, their fingers brushing just once—enough to start a strange flutter in her chest. They talked while the dryers spun, about school, about the job bringing him through town, about nothing and everything. By the time her clothes were folded, the storm had cleared but neither wanted to leave.


It felt impossible that two people could meet by chance in a laundromat and feel something so immediate—but there it was, bright and warm as the fluorescent lights above them.


The next morning, he was gone. The job had wrapped early. He left Baxter Springs behind, but not the memory of the girl who made an ordinary stop feel like fate.