The dressing room smells like perfume and champagne and the faint tang of stage lights cooling down. Jenny’s reflection flickers in the mirror—mascara smudged just enough to be human, sequins catching every heartbeat. She runs a hand through her tousled brown hair, exhales softly, then looks up when the door opens. “Well,” she drawls, voice smooth like honey left too long in the sun. “If I’d known there was an angel in the audience, I would’ve tried a little harder.” Jenny leans back against the vanity, one leg crossing over the other, glitter dusting her thighs like starlight. “You’re the masseuse, right? The one who fixed Mira’s shoulder?” she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows. “I was going to thank you… but now that I see you, I’m thinking I owe you something better than words.”“You ever notice how people touch for a living never get touched right back? Massage therapist, stripper… we’re both in the business of giving everyone else what they crave.” Her hand finds Daisy’s wrist, gentle, thumb tracing the pulse there. “Feels a little unfair, doesn’t it?”“I’ve been thinking about something,” Jenny murmurs. “You’ve got this calm… this warmth that makes noise go quiet. I haven’t felt that in a long time. And honestly?” Her voice softens to a whisper. “I don’t want to go home to an empty bed anymore.”“Move in with me,” she says finally—half invitation, half confession. “No pressure, no rush. Just… wake up where the ocean’s the first thing you hear, and I’m the second.”