“I don’t want this to turn into pressure,” I said after a beat. “Or expectation. Or something you feel like you have to live up to. You don’t owe anyone perfection. You owe yourself to chase your dream.”
She nodded against me, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns into my side. “I feel like I can breathe when you say things like that.”
“Good,” I replied quietly. “Because I mean them.”
We stayed like that for a while, holding each other in the middle of her almost-shop, the future spread out around us in half-built shelves and stacked boxes. I kissed her hair, then her temple, then her cheek—soft, affectionate touches that saidI’m herewithout asking for anything in return.
Things were finally going right for her, and I hoped the bullshit with my parents wouldn’t get in the way.
29
EM
By Tuesday, time stopped behaving like a normal thing.
It stretched and compressed in strange ways, hours blurring together until I couldn’t tell if I’d eaten ten minutes ago or ten hours ago. The shop smelled like fabric dust and coffee and the faint citrus cleaner Audrey insisted on using because productive spaces deserve to smell hopeful. My hands were permanently sore, my shoulders lived in a constant burn, and I had never been more awake in my life.
It was chaos. Beautiful, loud, purposeful chaos.
Theo had been right—space changed everything. What felt impossible in Noah’s apartment became manageable the second we spread out. Cutting tables along one wall. Sewing stations by the windows. Packing near the back door. Audrey had found three freelance sewers by Wednesday afternoon, all women with sharp eyes and faster hands than mine, and when they showed up with their own machines and coffee tumblers, I almost cried.
Instead, I shook their hands and got to work.
We built a rhythm fast. I handled final construction and detailing—names, numbers, stitching that needed intention instead of speed. The freelancers assembled base jackets andsleeves. Daniel ran fulfillment like a command center, spreadsheets updating in real time, labels printing nonstop. He was young and still had college, but the idea of hiring Daniel to join this kept flittering through my mind. He was my right hand. But I had to get through this and then we’d talk. Audrey floated where she was needed, calming customers, answering emails, reminding me to sit down before my legs gave out.
Sassy claimed a permanent spot at my feet like she was guarding the operation.
By Thursday night, we were averaging seventy to eighty jackets a day as a team.
The work wasn’t magic. It was people. It was systems. It was letting go of the idea that doing it all myself made me more worthy of success. I felt stripped bare and powerful at the same time, like I was finally standing inside the life I’d imagined without apologizing for wanting it.
By Friday afternoon, we were close. Not finished—but close enough that the finish line felt real instead of theoretical.
Noah stopped by twice that day.
The first time, he dropped off food and didn’t say a word about how exhausted I looked. He kissed the side of my head, pressed water into my hand, and picked up trash. The second time, he stayed longer, leaning against the doorframe and watching me work with a quiet smile on his face.
The process made my chest ache. Especially when I kept apologizing for not helping with Miles more that week—which he scoffed about, and it was the first time I’d ever seen him annoyed at me.
Friday night came faster than I expected. The shop quieted as the freelancers packed up, promising to be back early Saturday. Daniel took Miles home with him after they hung out around the store after school, and I didn’t argue. I barely had the energy to think.
Noah locked the shop behind the last person out and leaned back against the door, exhaling hard.
“You did it,” he said quietly.
I shook my head. “Weall did it. I’m not done yet.”
“You’re allowed to acknowledge wins,” he replied. “Even partial ones.”
I smiled despite myself and wiped my hands on my leggings, the fabric already streaked with lint and thread that no amount of shaking ever seemed to remove anymore. My body felt wrung out in the best and worst ways—fingers sore, shoulders tight, a dull ache blooming at the base of my spine—but underneath it all was something steadier than exhaustion. Satisfaction. Purpose. The kind that settled into your bones and made the ache feel earned.
Noah watched me for a beat longer than necessary, his gaze soft but conflicted, like he was trying to memorize me and argue with himself at the same time. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with football, dark circles faint under his eyes, shoulders held a little too tight. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost careful.
“I fly out again tomorrow morning,” he said.
I nodded, already knowing how much I hated when he was gone. “I know,” I replied, keeping my voice even, even though my chest pinched a little. “You asked if Miles and I could come.”
“And you can’t,” he said, frustration threading his tone—not aimed at me, not really, but turned inward where it always did. His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once. “And I hate that. I want you guys with me all the time.”
