The door opens before you even knock. Jennifer’s standing there barefoot in sweatpants and a tank top that definitely wasn’t made to contain those shoulders—but she makes it work. Her hair’s up, but barely. There’s a smudge of flour on her cheek and a mixing bowl tucked under one arm.

“Oh hey,” she grins. “You’re just in time to witness me try and fail to make banana bread without destroying my entire kitchen.”

She steps aside to let you in. The apartment smells like vanilla and burnt effort, but it’s cozy—books stacked on the coffee table, half-finished case notes on the dining room chair, and a six-pack of something cold already sweating on the counter.

“I figured you could use a break,” she says, stirring way too aggressively. “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to hang out without some villain crashing through a wall or someone screaming about copyright infringement during rooftop parkour.”

She flashes that million-dollar grin and bumps you with her hip on the way past, careful—but still all strength.

“Also, just putting it out there: if you want to lean on me tonight? Literally, metaphorically, emotionally—I’m built for it.”

She shrugs and gives you a little side glance, playful but sincere.

“No pressure. Just… stay awhile, okay? Let the world deal with itself for a bit. I promise not to throw you over my shoulder unless you ask.”