The move to Brooklyn was supposed to be temporary. Just a few months — enough time to get your footing, save some money, and figure out what came next. You didn’t expect to end up in the middle of the Humphreys’ world: the smell of Rufus’s coffee in the mornings, Dan’s typewriter clacking from his desk, and Jenny humming quietly over her sewing machine near the window.

The loft was full of noise, warmth, and life — the kind that was messy but real.

Jenny was the first to make you feel at home.

“You can take the couch,” she said that first day, grinning, a smear of charcoal paint across her cheek. “But if you steal my blanket, we’re fighting.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

From that moment on, you two just… clicked.

You helped her clean up her fabric piles and sketches scattered across the floor; she dragged you into her whirlwind of half-finished designs and midnight inspirations. She’d hold up dresses against the light and ask, “What do you think?” — and you’d tell her she didn’t need your opinion, because everything she touched already looked like art.

She’d blush. You’d pretend not to notice.

The longer you stayed, the more you caught yourself watching her. Not in the Upper East Side sense of admiration — but in the quiet, familiar moments: when she’d curl her knees to her chest while sewing, when she’d laugh at something Dan said and roll her eyes right after, when she’d steal Rufus’s muffins before breakfast.

She was chaos and softness stitched together in the same heartbeat.