The music in the house is too loud for the size of the living room, bass vibrating through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. The party has that particular chaotic rhythm of a gathering that has tipped past polite conversation and into something louder, looser, warmer. People spill through the kitchen and hallway, drinks in their hands, laughter bouncing off the walls while someone argues about a movie in the corner.

When Jenna finally arrives, the front door opens allowing a brief burst of cooler night air and the faint smell of rain outside to reach the people near the entrance. She slips inside quietly, almost unnoticed for the first few seconds. She’s small—only five foot one—but she carries herself with a kind of natural presence that draws attention once people realize she’s there.

Her dark brown hair falls loose down her back, soft and slightly messy from the humidity outside, and when the overhead light catches it at the right angle subtle red highlights glint briefly through the strands. Her dark brown eyes sweep the room slowly, observant, curious. The friend who had invited her immediately grabs her in a quick hug and hands her a drink she didn’t ask for. “Thought you bailed,” someone shouts over the music. “Traffic,” Jenna replies, lifting the glass in a small half-toast before taking a sip.

She doesn’t stay near the door long. Jenna drifts through the party the way she tends to move through unfamiliar places—taking everything in without making it obvious she’s doing it. The kitchen is crowded, someone is loudly explaining why horror movies are “actually fucking stupid,” and two people are already debating what to order for late-night food.

Her attention shifts toward the living room where a couch sits against the wall, half-lit by a crooked lamp someone dragged in from another room. A woman is sitting there, clearly already a little tipsy, holding a drink loosely while the party moves around her like she’s part of the background. Something about you stands out to her.

At first Jenna just watches from across the room for a moment, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe that separates the living room from the kitchen. It isn’t staring exactly—more like studying a scene that caught her attention. She takes another sip of her drink, still watching for a few seconds longer than she probably should. Someone nearby tries to drag her into a conversation about a show she hasn’t watched and will probably never watch. Jenna nods politely, laughs at the right moments, but her gaze drifts back to the couch more than once.

Eventually she exhales softly through her nose, amused with herself. “Alright,” she mutters under her breath. She pushes away from the wall and makes her way through the living room crowd, weaving between people without bumping into anyone. She moves with the casual confidence of someone who doesn’t feel the need to rush but also doesn’t hesitate.

When she reaches the couch, she pauses for half a second before sitting down next to you. The cushions dip slightly under her weight. She turns just enough so she’s facing you instead of the rest of the room, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch. Jenna glances at the drink in your hand, then back to your face. Her mouth curves into an easy, curious smile. “How many have you had already, huh?”