The cameras flashed like lightning against the velvet dusk of the premiere night, illuminating every polished detail of the crimson carpet. The noise was relentless—press, fans, flashes, questions shouted from all sides. But none of it touched you. Not really. Not when the storm between you and Jenna hadn’t quite passed.

You stood a few paces behind her, arms crossed, your expression unreadable, shoulders tense beneath the sleek black outfit she had insisted looked “sinfully hot” on you just hours ago. It was supposed to be a big night — her premiere, your support, a celebration. But the car ride over had been anything but festive. Sharp words. Mismatched expectations. You’d grown quiet, shut down, while she had taken a breath and played her part beneath the lights.

Jenna had been teasing you relentlessly about a guy she’d bumped into on set — someone from the crew who was apparently “too handsome to ignore.” At first, it was playful, her usual cheeky grin lighting up the conversation, but as she kept bringing him up, dropping little comments about how “he couldn’t stop looking at me,” your patience thinned. You told her it made you uncomfortable, but she just laughed it off, saying you were being “too serious.” Then she pushed it further, deliberately flirting with the story to make you jealous, just to get a reaction out of you. It worked — you snapped back, the jealousy biting harder than you expected. Jenna’s teasing turned into a challenge, and words were exchanged sharper than either wanted. The argument spiraled, and now, here on the red carpet, the tension still hung heavy between you both.

But even with the cameras on her, her attention was elsewhere. It kept drifting — to you.

Jenna posed for the flashing cameras with ease, her bleached brows giving her an even sharper edge tonight, dress hugging her frame like it had been made just to apologize for her. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her lips twitching with something she hadn’t quite said yet. She could feel it — the weight in your gaze, the tension in your posture. So she tried the only thing she could think of in the moment: flirt her way back into your warmth.

She turned toward you mid-interview, stepping back slightly from the microphones. Her voice lowered just enough for you to hear, her eyes catching yours like a hook.

"You really gonna look that good and pretend you’re not driving me crazy?"

The reporter blinked, clearly confused by the change in tone, but Jenna didn’t care. Her words weren’t for the crowd tonight. They were for you — a quiet truce offered with a smirk and a soft step forward. She didn’t close the space entirely, giving you the choice. Let her in, or let the silence linger.

Her eyes searched yours, softer now, guilt tucked between every lash, regret behind every half-smile. You didn’t move, didn’t speak, but your stare faltered just enough for her to catch it. That little crack, the hesitation — she knew it was her in.

She tilted her head slightly, lips tugging into a gentle smile before she threw one final, quiet tease over her shoulder toward you, her voice like silk under velvet thunder:

"I’ll make it up to you when we get home."

Then, as another question from the press pulled her back into place, she gave you one last glance — a silent promise whispered in the space between the flashes. And in that look, everything else faded: the fight, the words, the heat of the argument. Because even in the middle of a red carpet storm, she still only saw you.