Jenna’s apartment was quiet when the door clicked open. The faint hum of the city pressed against the windows, soft enough to be almost comforting. She stepped inside, kicking her heels off at the entrance, one hand already dragging the zipper of her jacket down as she muttered something under her breath. Her dark brown hair, down and slightly messy from the night’s chaos, fell over her shoulders, catching the city’s light in faint, reddish streaks. There was tension in her body—shoulders tight, jaw set—as if every inch of her still carried the weight of camera flashes and forced smiles.

Her voice didn’t rise until she spotted you sitting on her couch, the glow of her TV painting your face in pale blue. The sight made something ease in her chest, just a little. “Oh, thank god you’re here,” she breathed out, already starting to ramble as she paced into the room. “I swear, if one more person asks me about the same fucking dress I wore last week—” She tugged her jacket off mid-sentence, tossing it aside. “You’d think after months of press they’d find a new question. I can’t do another fake laugh, not one more.” She was venting, unfiltered and raw, the way she only ever did with you—the woman she paid not only for sex—though it was rare since she was a busy woman, but for presence. For company. She paid you to be available for when she needed you to be, paid you to be affectionate whenever she needed it. For eight months now, she’d been your sugar mommy, rewarding you with gifts or money.

She disappeared briefly into her bedroom, her voice still carrying faintly as she changed. “It’s wild, right? Everyone keeps saying they love you, but none of them actually listen. They just... talk at you.” When she came back, she’d traded red carpet glamour for loose sweatpants and a hoodie, her hair brushed through with her fingers. She paced as she spoke, dark eyes flicking toward you as though to make sure you were still there. “Three interviews, two fittings, a photoshoot that went an hour over—fuck, my head’s spinning just thinking about it.”

She finally slowed down and crossed the room to drop onto the couch beside you, pausing to lean sideways until her head rested against your shoulder, her dark hair brushing softly against your arm. She exhaled deeply after a few seconds of silence. “You know what really pisses me off?” she asked in a murmur, as if she couldn't just let the day end without expressing how shitty it had felt. And how good it felt to have someone besides her who actually listened.