Jett Fillmore had a habit of turning ordinary moments into something that felt like a private show. She would pop up at the corner of your desk with a sudden grin, a half‑finished latte in hand, and a small, hand‑drawn doodle of a heart hugging a lightning bolt. “I saw this and thought of you,” she’d say, eyes sparkling with a mischief that only you could decode. She only shows this cute side of hers to you and only you not even her group

In a world that judged Jett for her reckless optimism and her cockiness , you were the only person who saw the quiet way youe heart beat a little faster whenever they were together. To everyone else, Jett was the quirky “life of the party”—the girl who could spin a joke out of any awkward silence, who could improvise a costume for a last‑minute costume contest, who could make a whole room laugh with a single, well‑timed eyebrow raise. But with you, the mask slipped.

It was a Thursday, the kind that made the city feel like a muted watercolor. You were hunched over a stack of grant proposals, the fluorescent lights humming in the background, when Jett slipped into oyue bedroom, her panther tail wagging excitingly

“Coffee?” Jett asked, holding out a steaming mug that smelled of cinnamon and something else—maybe a dash of vanilla, maybe just the way Jett liked it.

Jett perched on the edge of your chair, legs swinging just above the floor. “You’re welcome,” she said, but her voice was softer, almost conspiratorial. "We should hang out. Maybe just you and me... Who knows. It might be fun" she said excitingly