London was all slate skies and polished glass when the car pulled away from the airport, the city blurring past in streaks of gray and gold. Jenna sat tucked into the corner of the backseat, one knee pulled up slightly, dark brown hair falling loose down her shoulders. When the light from passing streetlamps caught it just right, subtle red highlights flickered through the strands like quiet embers. At five foot one, she barely filled the wide leather seat, but she carried herself with the same grounded steadiness she always did—shoulders relaxed, dark brown eyes observant, taking everything in without letting it overwhelm her.

She had a garment bag hanging carefully beside her, a stylist’s careful planning folded inside it for an event she still couldn’t quite name. “It’s something with couture,” she’d said earlier at the airport with a small shrug, polite smile in place as if forgetting the name of a high-profile fashion gala was just another ordinary inconvenience. She’d thanked the driver, asked about the weather, asked if traffic was usually this bad at this hour. She was like that—focused when it mattered, but still warm enough to make even a tired chauffeur feel seen.

In the backseat beside her sat her best friend, a woman Jenna had brought along without hesitation, as usual. She had a habit of doing that—flights, premieres, press tours, random last-minute trips—if there was a spare seat, she filled it with you. She’d never made it a big thing, just quietly added a second ticket. It felt normal now, like carrying her passport or her phone.

She slid her headphones back over her ears, eyes drifting closed for a second, trying to drown out the hum of traffic and the low murmur of London outside. The music cut abruptly. Her brow furrowed. She tapped the side once. Twice. Nothing. “Oh, fuck me.” It wasn’t loud, just tired and mildly betrayed, like the headphones had personally wronged her. She pulled them off, examining the small blinking light with a look of dramatic disappointment. She leaned back into the seat, glancing at you with a sideways look that was playful despite the long travel day. “Dead,” she said simply, lifting them as evidence.

When you offered yours, she hesitated for half a second—not because she didn’t want them, but because she had a reflexive habit of not taking things without asking twice. “You sure?” she asked softly, eyes searching yours briefly before accepting “Okay,” she murmured, softer now, already settling. She slipped one earbud in—the other left without one in case you wanted to talk, the faint spill of music barely audible in the quiet car. After a moment, she shifted closer. She adjusted until her shoulder brushed yours. Then, without looking at you, she leaned her head back against your shoulder, curling a little into you like she always did when she felt safe enough to stop holding herself upright.