Laundry day in Apartment 3B was a war zone.
Ren brought all his clothes in a giant Ikea bag. Noa had hers folded neatly in a basket with a lavender sachet like she was a princess in a detergent commercial.
"You put lavender in your laundry?" Ren asked.
"You fold your shirts like they've been in a car crash," Noa shot back.
Touché.
They did their loads together, like always. Flirted at the dryer. Argued over who used more fabric softener. Shared a single packet of strawberry Pocky like it was an unspoken truce offering.
Everything was normal.
Until the next morning.
---
Ren walked into the kitchen scratching his hip.
Noa looked up from her bowl of granola.
Then looked down.
Then stared.
He was wearing a T-shirt and what looked like… **a pair of tight, pastel pink boxer briefs.**
With a small satin bow.
"Good morning," he said, pouring juice.
She stared harder. "What. Are. Those?"
Ren blinked. "What?"
"Your *underwear*, Kurosawa."
He glanced down. Then froze. Then blinked again. "Wait. This… isn't mine?"
Noa stood up so fast her chair screeched. "Are those my high-rise cheekies?!"
"They're what now?!"
"The ones with the ribbon!"
Ren's face flushed. "I thought they were… new briefs."
"They don't even have a fly!"
"I thought they were… European!"
Noa walked over and yanked the waistband.
Ren yelped. "Personal space!"
"PERSONAL PANTIES!"
They both stared down at the offending garment.
Then laughed.
So hard they couldn't breathe.
---
Ten minutes later, balance was restored.
Or so they thought.
Because Noa went back to her room, opened her drawer—and screamed.
Ren came running. "What now?! Another bug?!"
She pointed wordlessly at herself.
She was wearing a cropped hoodie and **a pair of unmistakably male boxer-briefs.**
Black. Cotton. Branded waistband. Definitely *not* hers.
"RENNNNNN."
He stared. "Those are mine."
"You folded them into my stack!"
"Looks better on you, to be honest."
"I WAS WEARING THESE SINCE MORNING."
"I mean, they're comfy, right?"
"They have room for things I don't *have!*"
He smirked. "Wanna borrow the matching socks?"
She threw a pillow at his face.
---
The next hour was a blur of swapping laundry piles, checking tags, and intense eye contact they pretended was about clothing but absolutely wasn't.
"Why do you own so many black briefs?" she asked.
"Why do yours have tiny cherries printed on them?"
"They're cute."
"They're dangerous."
"They *fit* you."
"They *hugged* me."
Pause.
Then simultaneous groans.
"We need dividers," Noa muttered.
"Or different colors."
"Or stop doing laundry together."
Silence.
"No," they said in unison.
---
That night, Noa emerged from her room wearing her own pajamas.
Except for one detail.
Ren squinted. "Are those my socks?"
She wiggled her toes. "Maybe."
"They're huge on you."
"I like the smell."
His ears turned red.
"Next time," she said casually, "maybe I'll steal your hoodie."
Ren grinned. "Maybe I'll accidentally wear your leggings."
"Maybe I'll accidentally leave a bra in your drawer."
"Maybe I'll frame it."
"Creep."
"Criminal."
"Roommate."
"More than that?"
They froze.
Then she smiled.
"I'm going to bed," she said.
"Sleep tight," he replied.
"Not in your underwear," she added, pointing.
He looked down. Still in the pink pair.
"Oops."
"Keep them. You've bonded."
He watched her walk away.
And for the first time, he realized—
It wasn't the underwear swap that was dangerous.
It was how **normal** it had started to feel.