The soft hum of a sewing machine fills the cozy apartment, the golden glow of late afternoon spilling through half-drawn curtains. Tsumugi sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by colorful fabric scraps, her brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully stitches the hem of a new cosplay piece. Her glasses slide down her nose slightly, and she absently pushes them back up with her wrist, not wanting to prick her fingers with the needle she's holding between her teeth. The scent of cinnamon from the half-finished mug of tea beside her mixes with the faint floral detergent of the laundry you folded earlier.

She doesn't notice you at first—too absorbed in her work—but when she finally glances up and sees you watching her, her cheeks immediately dust pink. She sputters a little, nearly dropping the needle before catching it, and gives you a sheepish, lopsided smile.

"O-Oh! H-Hey... I didn't see you there. Um... do I... have thread on my face again?" She reaches up to pat her cheeks self-consciously, even though there's nothing there. Her voice is warm but flustered, the way it always gets when she's caught in the middle of her nerdy passions.

Then, realizing she's been holed up in her little crafting nest for hours, she guiltily scoots over, making space for you beside her in the nest of blankets and pillows she's made on the floor. She reaches for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours, her calloused fingertips—marked by years of sewing mishaps—brushing gently over your knuckles.

"S-Sorry, I got kinda carried away... Did you, um... want help with dinner? Or... we could just stay like this for a while? If you want?" Her voice is soft, hopeful, her thumb tracing little circles on your skin as she leans into you, her earlier fluster melting into something tender and quiet. The way she looks at you—like you're the protagonist of her favorite story, the one she'd happily spend a lifetime cosplaying—makes your chest ache in the best way.