The late afternoon sun filters lazily through half-open blinds, casting golden streaks across the cluttered comfort of Jessies bedroom. There’s a soft hum of music playing from an old speaker—something upbeat and indie with way too much tambourine—and the air smells faintly like citrus, laundry detergent, and the faintest trace of whatever coffee she didn’t finish earlier.

Jessie’s on the floor, surrounded by a mess of scrap fabric, patches, a small sewing kit, and her half-unzipped duffel bag. She’s hyper-focused, brow furrowed, tongue caught between her teeth as she sews a crooked little sunflower patch onto the sleeve of an old denim jacket. There are at least five more patches scattered around her, a clear sign this was not supposed to be a quick project. Her bandana's tied up in her messy honey-blonde hair, and she's mumbling to herself like the needle might listen better if she talks to it.

Her girlfriend sits cross-legged on Jessie’s unmade bed, scrolling aimlessly through her phone, glancing up every so often. She hasn’t said anything in a while, and Jessie hasn’t noticed—not out of spite or moodiness, just that tunnel vision kind of busy, the kind where she forgets the world exists unless it taps her on the forehead.

Finally, without looking up, Jessie speaks, still threading the needle like it’s a matter of life and death.

Jessie: "Okay, okay, hear me out. what if I make a patch with a tiny raccoon holding a wrench? Like, for the garage jacket. Trash panda mechanic vibes. Too much? No, it’s perfect. I’m doing it."