Evan Buckley | Laundry Thief

By the time Buck finally made it back to his apartment, the city had settled into that late night quiet that was never really quiet at all. Sirens still echoed faintly in the distance, traffic murmured like a restless animal that refused to sleep, and somewhere below his balcony a neighbor's TV laughed at something he did not have the energy to understand. His shoulders ached in that deep, marrow tired way that only came after a shift that refused to end cleanly. Everything about him felt used up. His turnout coat had been dumped in his locker hours ago, but the weight of the day still clung to him like smoke he could not quite wash out.

All he wanted was clean clothes. That was the goal. A shower hot enough to loosen his muscles, something edible that did not require thought, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing tomorrow would at least start with fresh underwear.

The shower had helped a little. Steam fogged the mirror and dulled the sharp edges of the day, and Buck stood under the spray longer than necessary, forehead pressed to cool tile, letting the water pound against his neck. He barely registered the washer finishing until the abrupt silence cut through the apartment. He dried off, pulled on a pair of old gym shorts, and shuffled into the laundry nook, towel still draped around his shoulders.

The routine was automatic. Open washer. Transfer damp clothes. Close dryer. Push button. His hands moved without instruction, brain already drifting toward the couch and the promise of doing absolutely nothing.

Then something felt wrong.

The load was too small, even for wet clothes.

It was subtle, the way missing things always were. Not enough to scream disaster, just enough to itch. Buck frowned down at the washer drum and shifted the clothes around, counting without meaning to. Shirts. Socks. Towels. Another shirt.

He paused.

He shifted the pile again, slower now, a crease forming between his brows. The itch sharpened into irritation. He straightened, scanned the dryer even though he had not turned it on yet, then crouched to peer uselessly under the machines.

Nothing.

A short, humorless laugh escaped him. "Great," he muttered to no one. "That's great."

He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers catching in his damp hair, and tried to replay the last day in his head. He had not left the apartment since his shift ended. No one else had been in here. Eddie had a key, but Eddie also had boundaries, which was not something Buck ever thought he would be grateful for. Maddie was busy. There was no rational explanation that did not make him sound insane.

Which left one deeply irrational thought that his exhausted brain latched onto anyway.

Buck finished loading the dryer, slammed the door harder than necessary, and hit the start button. The steady thrum filled the apartment, irritating and grounding all at once. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring at the wall like it might confess.

He told himself this was ridiculous. Washers ate socks all the time. Underwear disappearing was not unheard of. This was not a crime scene. He was not allowed to profile his own laundry.

Then he noticed the paw prints.

They were faint but unmistakable, small damp smudges trailing across the tile near the balcony door. Buck followed them slowly, dread curling in his stomach, until his eyes landed on something half hidden under the couch.

A black elastic waistband.

Buck stared at it for a long moment before bending down and picking it up between two fingers. It was clean. Recently clean. One of his newer pairs, which somehow made this worse.

A low sound crawled out of his throat.

"A cat," he groaned flatly. "You have got to be kidding me."

Everything snapped into place at once. The new neighbor. The faint jingling sound he had heard late at night. The balcony doors that faced each other across a gap just narrow enough to tempt a bored animal with too much confidence.

They had moved in three days ago. Buck knew this because the hallway had smelled like cardboard and dust, because the elevator had been full of boxes stacked too high, because someone next door had spent an entire afternoon dragging furniture across the floor like they were rearranging the whole concept of gravity. Buck had not actually met them yet. He had only exchanged vague hallway awareness and muffled apologies through walls. It still felt personal.

Buck marched onto the balcony and leaned over the railing, scanning the neighboring one with narrowed eyes. There were plants out there, half dead but trying, a scratched chair, and a faded blanket tossed over the arm. No cat. No underwear. Just the quiet mockery of a normal looking space that had apparently launched a full scale assault on his dignity.

By the time the dryer finished, Buck had found three more pairs. One behind the TV stand, one under the coffee table and one placed dead center in the hallway like a statement.

The cat had not even tried to be subtle.

Buck gathered the recovered fabric into a bundle and headed for the door before he could talk himself out of it. He did not bother with shoes. He did not rehearse, no. He knocked on the neighboring apartment door with firm, annoyed precision and then immediately stepped back, forcing himself to breathe.

He was not going to yell, because he was a professional. Evan handled emergencies for a living. This was just a conversation about boundaries and laundry and someone else's menace of an animal.

The door opened.

Buck's brain stalled for a fraction of a second. There was movement behind the door, boxes and half assembled furniture, and then a blur of fur streaking across the floor.

The cat skidded to a stop and locked eyes with him.

It had a sock in its mouth.

Buck stared. The cat stared back, completely unrepentant, tail flicking with smug confidence. The sock was unmistakable. His. One he distinctly remembered folding. "Oh, come on," Buck said, disbelief overpowering his carefully constructed calm.

The cat chose that moment to turn and bolt deeper into the apartment, sock still clenched like a trophy.

Buck closed his eyes and counted to three, then opened them again, lifting the bundle of stolen laundry slightly as he looked toward the neighbor and said, tightly but controlled, "So, quick question. Are you aware that your cat has been systematically stealing my underwear, or is this also new information for you?"

(Creatie your own scenario.)