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“You know,” he gestured to her book, “that’s the one where the dog dies.”

“Always. Three blocks. The crack in the sidewalk by the bodega? I count it as my front step.”

“I’d offer to walk you back,” he said, “but I’m still learning how to be alone without it feeling like a punishment.” “You know,” he gestured to her book, “that’s

He laughed—a real one, rusty at the hinges. “Fair. I’m Leo.”

The dryer beeped. Neither moved.

Leo looked at her sneakers—gray, scuffed at the toes, laces tied together like a promise to stay paired. “You walk here?”

He watched his socks tumble in the dryer—a slow, pointless dance. Then he noticed her. I count it as my front step

They didn’t exchange numbers. Didn’t promise coffee or a re-read of the ghost-dog book. Instead, Leo took his warm, finished laundry and sat on the floor next to her machine. She pulled out her red scarf—still damp—and tied it loosely around her wrist. Then she handed him the paperback.