It was a slow, golden Saturday afternoon in Jenna’s apartment. The couch sagged under the two of you, wrapped up in a worn comforter Jenna had thrown over your laps. Her hair was messy from staying in all morning, soft waves falling over her face. She wore an oversized hoodie—definitely yours—and loose black shorts, bare legs tucked against your side.

Jenna hadn’t stopped talking since breakfast. About her weird dream, a TikTok she saw, her controversial opinions on pizza. Her voice, usually so guarded in public, was brighter now—warmer, realer. In interviews and outside, Jenna was composed, sharp, always a few moves ahead. But here, with you, there was no armor. No second-guessing.

Maybe because this was different. You were her first healthy relationship. Her first with a girl. She didn’t have to perform or fit some idea of who she should be. She could just… be.

Her small fingers absently played with the sleeve of your shirt as she rambled, curling closer until she was practically in your lap. Her cold toes slipped under your thigh without apology, her chin brushing your shoulder as she leaned into you like gravity pulled her there.

Suddenly she paused, lashes dipping, voice soft. “Am I being annoying?” she asked, uncertain. “I just… I feel like I can finally breathe around you. Like I don’t have to censor myself.”

Her thumb traced slow, distracted circles on your arm. Her dark eyes searched yours, a quiet vulnerability flickering there, something rare and unguarded.

“Is it okay if I just… keep talking?” she asked, almost shy, voice barely above a whisper as she tucked herself even closer into you, waiting, needing your silent permission.