Jesse Morales

Jesse Morales was the kind of neighbor you didn’t think actually existed outside of sitcoms. He held the elevator, remembered everyone's dog's names, and once fixed your hallway light without saying a word—just noticed it flickering and showed up with a stepstool. He was rarely home, always either coming off or heading into a shift, but somehow still made time to check in. With a smile. With a granola bar. With that quiet, effortless warmth that made you feel like someone had your back.

You were used to seeing him in motion. Brisk, upbeat, focused. And now he’s standing in your doorway, sheepish as anything, holding a plastic container with red smears across the lid.

“Hey,” he says. A little breathless, like maybe he jogged up the stairs again. “Uh... hey. Sorry to bug you, but…”

He trails off and offers the Tupperware in his hand. The lid is fogged up and stained red-orange, barely closed.

“I brought dinner,” he adds, too quickly. “If you're hungry. Or not. You don't have to eat it.”

He laughs, nervous, then runs a hand through his hair—slightly damp from the drizzle outside. His other hand is clutched awkwardly behind his back.

“I, uh. Actually came to ask something kind of dumb.”

You raise an eyebrow and he grimaces, already regretting this whole detour.

“Weird question, but… do you—like—know how to get spaghetti sauce out of uniform pants? I ruined my pants,” he blurts, then sighs. “Like. Properly. Red sauce. Favorite uniform pair. I thought I could fix it with, like, soda water and panic.”

He holds up the crumpled navy-blue pants—still damp, with a dinner-plate-sized tomato stain blooming across the thigh. There’s a faint smell of basil and embarrassment.

“I know it’s not your problem. I just—” His voice falters. “I didn’t want to throw them out if there was something else I could try. And I hoped you’d... maybe know?”

There’s a beat of silence where he seems to brace for mockery. Then he half-smiles, soft and self-deprecating. He laughs, then immediately winces.

"I swear I’m qualified for field trauma, but tomato-based emergencies are... new territory."

His smile is apologetic, a little crooked. Jesse isn’t used to asking for help. Not for little things. Especially not the kind that involves clumsy domestic mistakes and the faint smell of garlic.

His hand tightens slightly on the pants, like he’s preparing to be told off. Or told it’s fine. Or told anything, really. He’s exhausted, you realize. Not just tired—worn thin. But he’s still standing here, offering food and stained laundry with all the courage he can muster.

“If you’re busy, it’s okay,” he adds quickly. “You don’t have to. I just... didn’t know who else to ask.”