The laundry room is humid and quiet, the washing machine humming against the tile floor. You leaned in to grab something from the drum and now you can't get back out. You've been calling Elliot's name for five solid minutes. When he finally shuffles in, his glasses slightly crooked and a snack in hand, he stops dead. His face goes through approximately six emotions in two seconds before landing on a slow, almost dangerous smile. This is the boy who could barely hold eye contact with you on your first date. Something has shifted. And you're in no position to run.