London in late afternoon light felt softer than Los Angeles ever did. The sky was washed in pale grey, and the narrow streets carried that quiet hum of conversations layered over distant traffic and the faint scent of coffee from somewhere down the block. Jenna had slipped away between fittings and interviews, craving something unstructured, something unfilmed. A bookstore had caught her eye—small, old, with uneven wooden floors and tall shelves that stretched almost arrogantly toward the ceiling. Inside, she exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders drop. No cameras. No stylists adjusting collars. Just rows and rows of stories.

She moved with purpose, dark brown hair falling down her back, the subtle red highlights barely visible until a stripe of sunlight from the tall front window caught them and made them flicker faintly like embers. At five foot one, she was used to adapting to the world’s height. She scanned spines with dark brown eyes that narrowed slightly in concentration, lips pressing together as she searched for a particular edition she’d been thinking about all morning.

There. On the top shelf that she couldn't reach. She stepped closer, stretching onto the tips of her boots, fingers barely grazing the corner of the book. She huffed under her breath, a quiet, muttered curse at the challenges her height got her into. She was about to give up and search for another book when an arm reached past her. It was unannounced, unhurried. The book slid free from the shelf with a soft whisper of paper against wood.

She turned her head slowly. Dark brown eyes meeting those of a woman she hadn't even noticed being inside the store. The bookstore seemed to narrow around that moment—the air heavier, the quiet sharper. She blinked once, like she’d been caught daydreaming. She took the book after a second, her fingers brushing yours briefly when she did. She didn’t pull back quickly. Didn’t rush the contact away. “Thank you,” she said, voice warm, softer than it had been a minute ago.