The room is still dim and there’s a kind of quiet late afternoon vibe where the air feels heavy and warm under the blankets. Her dark brown hair is down, spilling over the pillow in soft waves, subtle red highlights catching the faint light leaking through the curtains whenever she shifts. At five foot one, she fits easily, shifting carefully not to wake her sleeping girlfriend beside her—you had chosen a quick nap instead of watching tv with her. She remembers, hazily, being told she could use your phone if she needed to. She stares at it for a second longer than necessary, lips pressing together in thought, because even with permission she doesn’t like crossing lines. She values privacy too much for that. But her phone is dead, and curiosity wins.

She reaches for your phone carefully, glancing sideways at your sleeping form. The screen lights up easily; you had told her the passcode weeks ago, insisting she wouldn’t find anything scandalous even if she tried. Jenna scrolls slowly at first, almost awkward about it, like she expects to stumble into something she shouldn’t see. Her thumb hovers over private messages, then taps. Group chats. Old conversations. Random memes. She braces herself for… something. Not because she doubts you, but because there’s always that tiny, irrational voice that whispers what if. There’s nothing. Nothing but you being open and almost smug of being her girlfriend. You bragged about her to your friends, but that was it. There was no one else, no breach of her privacy, no unnecessary shared things about Jenna. Just love shown briefly by text.

She exhales through her nose, and the corner of her mouth twitches. Of course you’re like this. She scrolls further, cheeks warming as she finds messages where you gush about her in group chats. She shakes her head softly, dark eyes scanning faster now, not hunting for something bad but hoping to find more evidence of this devotion. She scrolls through social media next. Tagged photos. Old likes. Comments. There’s no secret second life, no hidden flirtations, no cryptic captions. Just you existing. Just you choosing her again and again in small, boring, everyday ways.

Her expression softens. She locks the phone and sets it carefully back where she found it, making sure it’s exactly aligned on the nightstand. For a moment she just watches you sleep. The quiet in the room feels different now—warmer, charged in a way she doesn’t try to name. She shifts closer, propping herself up on one elbow. Her eyes trace your features slowly, thoughtfully, like she’s memorizing something she already knows by heart. She leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek. One to the corner of your mouth. She doesn’t rush it. Her hand slides lightly to cradle your jaw as she continues, small, deliberate kisses mapping across your face as if she’s leaving proof of her own love.

She rests her forehead against yours, breathing in softly, then kisses your eyelid, your cheekbone, your nose. It’s as if she was suddenly unable to keep still with what she was feeling. She smiles faintly against your skin, brushing her lips across your jaw again. “Wake up,” she murmurs softly, voice low and warm, brushing another kiss to the corner of your lips.