Some weeks, lugging a whole load of laundry into the laundromat felt like an accomplishment. Peyton was sure he looked like a damn fool, carting a hamper down three flights of stairs into the basement of his apartment building - but also, it was laundry day. His only suitable clothes were a faded Jukebox the Ghost band t-shirt and fraying red-and-black striped pajama pants that, frankly, had seen better days.

(God, when had he last worn these again? High school?)

As he balanced his hamper on his left hip and opened up the nearest machine, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. To savor in the achievement of doing the absolute bare minimum expected of a young adult. Sure, he felt like a Mess, with the fraying hems and scratched, broken band logo on his chest, but he was Here. Tossing shirts and inside-out jeans and even his underwear into the machine so he wouldn't have to sniff clothes on the floor and figure what passed for semi-clean.

Once the machine was filled to the brim, he set the hamper down and swiped his payment. He then reached for his detergent and - and shit. He had definitely left his bottle upstairs, and it wasn't like the basement supplied any extra.

He could text his roommate Tom and see if he had gotten off work early. That would also be a huge stretch, because his roommate worked an actual grown-up job with inflexible hours (and stable benefits). No, he would have to deal with his bare-minimum achievement on his own.

Peyton sighed, rubbing his temple. If he left his things unattended while he ran upstairs, he would also be greeted to laundry on top of the machine. It had happened before. It would happen again, and he wouldn't even blame the poor sap who had to look at his band shirts and way-too-many pairs of patterned socks. Hell, just last month, he had been greeted to his stack on top of the dryer. Twice.

So he glanced around the room, noting a young woman sitting in the corner, pouring over a thick textbook. While he had never formally met her, they had crossed paths in the elevator numerous times, wishing each other a good day or evening. Once or twice, if he came home early from a shoot, he would catch her in the leasing office with a stack of packages, or she would wave at him whenever she saw him from the window of their apartment gym.

Knowing his luck, she would be prepared. She seemed like the type, from how she always had that huge backpack with her. Given his desperation, too, he wouldn't even mind forking over extra money to make up for his snafu...

"Hey," he said as he approached her, pressing his hands together in the eternal prayer motion. The last thing he wanted was for her to take this the wrong way. "I uh - I kind of left my detergent upstairs, so I was wondering if I could use some of yours."

"Um, sure." The girl blinked back surprise, rising to her feet and gesturing to the bottle next to her. "But you don't need to pay me back, either - I've had this for like, way too long."

"You sure?" Peyton breathed a sigh of relief. "I don't mind. It's my fault I forgot."

"Well, not in money, per se..." she bit on her lower lip, glancing up at him.

Peyton raised his eyebrows at her as he uncapped the bottle, pouring just enough for his load. "What do you mean?"

"You're Peyton, right? The film student on the third floor?"

"Uh-huh." He furrowed his brow, giving her another once-over. To his knowledge, he had never forked over his name or his occupation. Their elevator conversations had never been long enough to exchange that vital piece of information. "How'd you know?"

"I asked your roommate," she confessed, idly twirling her curls and avoiding his gaze. "It's just - we see each other on the elevator so often that I thought I knew your name, and then I realized I didn't, and then I figured it was way too awkward to ask you, so I figured, why not ask your roommate? I see him a lot, and Tommy's always really sweet and - "

"Hold on, motormouth." Peyton's lips twitched upwards in amusement. "I've been wanting to know your name for a while too."

"Oh! Right, those are important..." Her hands immediately went to her mouth, and he swore, her cheeks were burning a faint red. "My name's Maxine."

"Okay, Maxine..." Peyton poured the detergent into the machine, finally starting his load. "What sort of payment can I give you in return?"

"For starters, hold out your elbow."

He rolled up his sleeve, extending his forearm to her. Maxine pulled out a pen from her purse and scribbled down nine digits - a 617 area code (homegirl lived in Boston?) and the seven numbers that comprised a phone number. Her phone number.

Peyton's expression must have spoken for him, because Maxine's face and neck was the same shade as her hair (and with time, would only get even redder).

"Diiiid you want a date?" He managed to stammer out. "Maxine, I gotta say, that's pretty bold - "

"Not a date-date," she squeaked. "I mean, we just - we see each other a lot, and I'm kind of tired of watching movies by myself, so it'd be nice to have company and -"

" - you wanted someone who would appreciate it, right?" Peyton finished, kneeling down so that they were at eye-level. They weren't complete strangers, and frankly, a movie not-date would give him enough incentive to maintain the laundry and - well, to keep doing chores in a semi-reasonable span of time. "Sure. I think I could manage that."

As she let go of his arm and resumed her reading, Peyton decided against fighting the grin on his face. Today, he had done more than the bare minimum, and that in and of itself was monumental.