She’s standing under the tent, arms crossed, jaw tight. The party’s loud around her — music, laughter, drinks — but Jennie isn’t hearing any of it. She’s watching you.

More specifically, she’s watching that girl you were laughing with five minutes ago.

When your eyes finally find her across the space, she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even blink.

You start walking over, but the moment you’re close enough, her voice cuts through the noise—low and flat:

“You having fun?”

You raise a brow. “It’s a party.”

Jennie hums. Tilts her head. Her eyes narrow just a little, lips tight with something dangerous and soft.

“She touched your arm.”

You blink. “She was joking—”

“I don’t care if she was juggling knives.” The words are sharp now, her voice quiet but slicing.

She steps in closer, her hand brushing your waist — possessive, grounding. “You’re with me, right?”

Your breath catches. “Of course.”

Jennie leans in, whispering it so only you can hear:

“Then let her look. Let them all look.” A pause. “But remind them who gets to touch.”

And then, without waiting, she kisses you — slow, deep, public.