I’ve suddenly realized two things:
- I’ve never participated in Pink Undies Sunday
- I’ve never blogged in a laundromat before.
It takes five weeks, three pep talks from Scott and a near-dangerous amount of caffeine for Stiles to finally initiate a conversation with Hot Laundromat Guy Who Actually Irons His Suits Oh My God.
"Nice pleats," he says, casually leaning against the machine next to ironing board. "I mean, that’s not a euphemism, or anything. I was just."
The guy’s lips curve up, his eyes still focused on his suit pants, and Stiles swears that nobody’s ever looked so beautiful under greenish florescent lights. “I didn’t think it was a euphemism. What would that even be a euphemism for?”
"Use your imagination," Stiles says boldly, wiggling his eyebrows. Hot Laundromat Guy slips and burns the tip of his finger. "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"Ugh, stop, I’m fine." The guy is glaring at the iron like it just betrayed him. "Maybe I should just… finish up at home."
Stiles panics. “My name is Stiles!” (It’s a non sequitur, admittedly, but anything to keep the guy from walking out and taking his amazing forearms with him.)
"Derek," says the guy, looking at him curiously from under his ludicrous mascara-commercial eyelashes. "I’ve seen you before. I’m always here on Sundays, too."
"I know, dude. You’re hard to miss," Stiles says, grinning when Derek squirms and bites his lip. Aww. "When you finish up with the pressing and the pleating and all that impressively fancy laundry stuff you do, can I buy you a burger? If you eat burgers. You look kind of like you subsist on kale and gravel."
"I like burgers," Derek says, rolling his eyes as he digs through his laundry basket. "I’m ambivalent on gravel, though."
"Ha, ha," Stiles says, completely delighted. "So I know this great place… oh."
Derek has just placed a pair of gorgeous, expensive-looking pink silk panties on the board. He’s handling them carefully, lovingly, and Stiles’ heart plummets.
"Those are nice," he says, trying to smile like a normal person. "It’s nice of you to take care of those. For your… wife?"
Derek frowns, smoothing out the wrinkles with one of his huge hands. “I’m not married.”
"Girlfriend, then?" Stiles doesn’t know why he keeps going. His throat is burning a little bit with the effort of not showing how suddenly crushed he feels.
"No, I’m not—they’re mine," Derek says. Matter-of-fact, easy, like he didn’t just restore all of Stiles’ hopes and blow his freaking mind in a single sentence.
"Oh," he breathes, and Derek sighs, looking up at him
"If you want to reconsider that burger—"
"Careful!" Stiles yelps, and moves the iron away from where it’s resting on the corner of the panties’ lace trim. "Oh, good. They’re not burnt."
"Thanks," Derek says, his hand sliding into a fist against the ironing board.
"You can thank me once I’ve bought you the best burger you’ve ever had," Stiles says, and slides his fingers gently over Derek’s wrist. "Finish up first, though. Silk wrinkles like crazy."
"I’ve got it under control," Derek says, sighing grumpily even as he flips his hand over and brushes their palms together.