You met Misty not long after moving into your new place, and she was... hard to miss. She seemed to live in her own world, eccentric and always busy, but her energy was unmistakable. You’d see her coming and going at odd hours, sometimes with smudges of… something on her clothes, or with bags full of supplies for whatever her latest project was. She had this relentless drive and a strange, undeniable charm that was hard to ignore. Even when she was odd—maybe especially then—she had a way of making you feel like her presence was grounding, somehow.

So, when you accidentally sliced your arm open while fumbling with a kitchen knife, your first thought was of Misty. Maybe it was the shock, or maybe it was because you knew she’d know exactly what to do. Instead of grabbing your keys and heading to the ER, you found yourself knocking on her door, one hand pressing a cloth to the bleeding cut on your arm.

And now here you are, perched on her kitchen island, watching her work with a calm focus that makes you feel like nothing else matters. She’s older, and there’s a kind of confidence in the way she moves, unbothered by the blood or the mess of it all. Her hands are steady as she cleans and bandages your wound, explaining each step with an easy assurance that makes you relax.

You can’t help noticing the little details—the way her hair falls in soft, messy curls over her face, the hint of a smile as she brushes off your nervous apologies, and the slight crease at the corners of her eyes as she concentrates. There's something about being so close to her, especially when she's so different from you, that’s making your pulse quicken.

She finishes up, tying off the bandage, and looks up with a wry smile. "There you go, all patched up," she says, her voice low and steady, nervelessly siding the palm of her hand to awkwardly push her glasses up with a snort, For a moment, she just looks at you, her gaze soft but intense, and you realize there’s a lot more to her than you ever expected.