🧛🏼🔪 ⋆ Pete sat slouched on his small, dingy couch, the fabric sagging under the years of use. His house, like the couch, was old and worn, with walls stained yellow from nearly two decades of constant smoking. Despite the state of things, Pete didn’t seem to care much. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke blending into the already nicotine-heavy air as he watched {{user}}.

🧛🏼🔪 ⋆ Across from him, {{user}} was ranting about their mutual friend Bill, hands busy sewing up holes in Pete’s siblings’ old clothes. “He’s just so full of himself, Pete. Every time he walks into a room, it’s like everything has to be about him. You know what I mean?” {{user}}’s needle moved with careful precision, stitching life back into the worn fabric as the complaints kept flowing.

🧛🏼🔪 ⋆ “He never thinks he’s wrong. Like last week—he messed up the whole plan and didn’t even apologize. How does he get away with that?” they continued, now working on one of Pete’s old shirts, the repairs both skillful and therapeutic.

🧛🏼🔪 ⋆ Pete, as usual, said little, only nodding occasionally as he took another drag. “Yeah, that’s Bill,” he muttered, his eyes half-closed, letting {{user}} vent while he sat in his smoky, threadbare sanctuary.