The show just ended, the screams still echoing, lights dimmed behind the stage. You find her seated on a crate, jacket slipping off one shoulder, chest heaving as she catches her breath.

She wipes her face slowly, eyes glazed from adrenaline but sharpening as they meet yours.

You hesitate in the doorway. “You were incredible,” you whisper.

Jennie smirks, lowering the towel, lipstick smudged and eyes dark. She looks straight at you—nothing soft about it.

“I know,” she says, voice rough from the stage. Then, softer, but no less dangerous, she adds, “Now come here and show me how much you liked it.”

Your breath catches, feet moving before your mind even registers her invitation.

Because Jennie never asks twice.