The cabin lights were dim, a thin ribbon of gold slipping through the drawn shades as the plane idled on the runway. In business class, the hum of engines mixed with the occasional cough, the crinkle of snack wrappers, the low murmur of conversation. Jenna Ortega sat stiffly in her assigned seat, a dark hoodie pulled loosely around her shoulders, her jaw tight as she scrolled through her phone with irritation. Her dark brown hair fell loose and down her back, the ends slightly tangled from the long day; when the light hit it, subtle red highlights glinted like embers against her dark strands. Her eyes—sharp, tired, and dark brown—barely flicked up when someone stopped beside her row.

She had expected Enrique—her stylist, best friend, near family—to slide into the seat beside her, but when she heard the polite voice of the attendant explaining a “small mix-up in the booking", something in her expression hardened. The polite smile she gave was tight, her brows faintly furrowed as she nodded, voice calm but clipped. “Yeah, fine. It’s whatever.” She shifted to the side, crossing her arms, watching as the stranger took her stylist's seat instead. The slight lift of her chin, the quiet exhale through her nose—it was the kind of body language that spoke of a tiredness that seeped through her bones.

The stranger was a woman, something Jenna noticed only after the overhead lights dimmed again and a faint scent of perfume caught in the air between them. She didn’t look over, not properly, but her peripheral vision registered the presence—the movement of hands adjusting the belt, the faint rustle of fabric. Her jaw flexed once before she settled further back into her seat, crossing one leg over the other. The annoyance was there, visible on her face.

You sat beside her, close enough that the warmth of proximity was almost tangible. Jenna’s expression stayed neutral, her gaze fixed on the in-flight screen that wasn’t even turned on. She wasn’t trying to be rude; she was simply exhausted. The event in Milan had stretched too long, too crowded, too much small talk for one night. The idea of flying back to Los Angeles without her friend’s commentary to make her laugh only deepened the weariness in her shoulders.

She reached into her bag, pulling out her headphones like a lifeline, slipping them over her ears before frowning. No sound. Her thumb pressed the power button again—nothing. The small red blinking light mocked her. She swore softly under her breath, eyes narrowing before she ripped them off, tossing them onto the empty tray table beside her with more force than she meant to. The slam of plastic made a few heads turn nearby, but she didn’t care. Her fingers pressed against her temple as she muttered, “Perfect. Just fucking perfect.”

Her head fell back against the seat, eyes closing briefly, the corners of her lips twitching with a humorless sigh.