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Izuku paced the narrow strip of linoleum between the humming machines, muttering under his breath and wringing his hands like they might wring the nerves out of him. His stomach was still heavy with the greasy toast he’d wolfed down that morning, trying to eat fast before the interview—but all he could think about now was the sharp, ugly brown splash that had bloomed across his white dress shirt. Coffee. His entire cup. Like fate had just reached down and slapped him for daring to think today might go smoothly.
He’d bolted straight from his apartment to the laundromat, nearly tripping over his own feet, ignoring the way his tie flapped against his chest. Now he hovered anxiously in front of the dryer, palms damp, wiping them over and over against his trousers. It didn’t help. He felt like he was sweating through every layer he had on, nerves eating him alive.
The bell above the door chimed, and Izuku startled, turning his head.
The man who walked in looked like he hated existing. Blond hair spiking out in every possible direction, like he’d just rolled out of bed and dared anyone to comment. His scowl was carved deep, sharp eyes scanning the room like he was already looking for a fight. Izuku instantly shrank back, silently promising himself to stay very, very out of the way.
The man slammed a bundle of clothes into a washer, shoved in coins with unnecessary force, and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. The air in the laundromat thickened. Izuku told himself to just focus on his own machine, but the silence between them grew unbearable, like a string pulled too tight.
He cleared his throat softly.
Nothing. The man didn’t so much as blink in his direction.
Izuku pressed his lips together. Fine. That was fine. He could live with silence. He drummed his fingers nervously against the side of the washer, a quiet rhythm—tap, tap, tap—that kept his brain from spinning completely out of control. The machines whirred steadily, oddly comforting, like white noise wrapping around him.
Until—
“Can you not?” The man’s voice cut through the room like a whip.
Izuku jerked, his hands freezing mid-tap. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and forced his hands deep into his pockets. “S-sorry,” he stammered.
The man turned his head just enough to glare. “Don’t be such a fucking wimp. Stop apologizing. Just don’t do it.”
Izuku’s mouth opened, the word sorry right there on his tongue, before he bit it back. “I mean—okay.” His voice cracked, small and uncertain. He wished, desperately, that his clothes would hurry up and finish. That he could escape this suffocating space.
The man snorted like he wasn’t worth the effort of a real laugh and went back to scowling at nothing in particular.
The dryer beeped to indicate it was done, and Izuku jumped to escape. He pulled his shirt out of the dryer, and his gaze zeroed in on something.
The stain.
It was still there.
It had lessened in intensity, true, but it was still a noticeable discolouration. Izuku’s heart dropped to his stomach. “No, no, no…” he muttered to himself, scrubbing furiously at the shirt.
“You have to be another level of pathetic to be freaking out over a coffee stain,” the man said flatly.
Izuku’s face burned. “I-It’s a job interview. I can’t show up with coffee all over my shirt.”
The man stared at him for a long moment. Izuku wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Then, with a huff, the man stomped over to his own dryer, yanked it open, and pulled out a black button-up shirt. He shoved it hard against Izuku’s chest.
“Here. Take it.”
Izuku blinked down at it. “…What?”
“Wear it, shitty nerd. You look pathetic enough already without panicking over some stain.”
“I can’t just take your shirt—”
“You can. You will. Don’t argue.” The man’s glare dared him to try.
Izuku swallowed hard and slipped the shirt on. It was a little loose, but clean, and better than anything he had. The fabric was warm from the dryer, carrying the faint scent of detergent and something sharper he couldn’t place. He smoothed it down with shaking hands. “…Thank you.”
The man looked away, scowling. “Don’t make me regret it, dumbass.”
Izuku hesitated, then smiled despite the heat in his face. He wasn’t sure why the man had helped him—he didn’t look like the type who cared about strangers. But Izuku held the shirt tighter around himself anyway, like it was some kind of armor.
“…I’ll bring it back,” he said quickly, voice tripping over itself. “After the interview. Washed, folded, ironed—”
“Tch. Don’t bother. I’ve got others.”
“But—”
“Drop it.” The man’s eyes flicked to him, sharp enough to cut. “Focus on your fucking interview before you screw it up.”
Izuku’s words died on his tongue. He nodded, clutching his bag and the ruined shirt awkwardly against his side.
As he headed for the door, the man called out again, voice low but firm. “Hey.”
Izuku paused, glancing back.
“Don’t waste the chance, nerd.”
For a moment, Izuku thought he saw something softer in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced with the same scowl as before.
Izuku’s smile returned, smaller this time, but real. “I won’t.”
And then he pushed the door open, the bell chiming above him, thinking that maybe, this day wasn't that bad after all.