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The fluorescent hum of Springfield General’s pediatric wing coats everything in a sterile, anxious glow. Lisa Simpson’s fingers twitch against the scratchy hospital blanket, her skull throbbing where it connected with the pavement after her bike tire caught a rogue pothole. Across the room, Bart’s snores rattle through his busted lip—his latest skateboard stunt leaving him concussed but, typical Bart, weirdly proud of it.
The door creaks open. Jessica Lovejoy’s combat boots scuff against the linoleum, her smirk already in place before she’s fully inside. "Heard you two initiated a demolition derby without me," she drawls, dropping a crumpled bag of vegan gummy worms onto Lisa’s lap.
Lisa’s retort lodges in her throat. "Y-you s-saw the—" she starts, then winces at the jagged rhythm of her own voice. The impact had left her tongue sluggish, syllables stumbling like drunk fireflies.
Jessica’s grin widens. She leans in, close enough for Lisa to catch the faded grape gum on her breath. "Aw, that’s adorable," she coos, mimicking the stutter with a theatrical wobble of her head. "L-L-Lisa S-Simpson, g-g-genius."
Lisa’s face burns, but the warmth isn’t just embarrassment. There’s something about the way Jessica’s eyes crinkle at the corners, something that makes her stuttered protests die half-formed. Bart mumbles something about "gross flirting" in his sleep. Neither girl hears him.