Landing an internship with Jenny Humphrey was supposed to be the pinnacle of your college experience. After all, she wasn’t just Little J anymore; she was a rising fashion icon, the mastermind behind her own edgy, cutting-edge label.

When you first met her in her sleek SoHo studio, she was all sharp angles, high heels, and intensity—the same ambition that had once ruled the Upper East Side, now channeled into fabric and vision boards.

“Welcome,” she said, eyes scanning you like a designer appraising a mannequin. “Hope you’re ready to work. This isn’t a coffee-fetching internship.”

“I’m ready,” you said, trying not to let the nerves show.

She smirked. “Good. Because in fashion, you either rise—or you get lost in the chaos.”

The first week was chaos, all right. You shadowed her at fittings, helped edit designs, organized her sketches, and even endured her critiques that could slice through steel. Yet somehow, the more time you spent together, the more sparks flew—not just from the creativity, but from something deeper, electric, unspoken.

During one late night, as she pinned fabric on a mannequin, you couldn’t help but compliment her: “Jenny, your designs are… incredible. I don’t know how you make it look effortless.”

She paused, eyes locking with yours. “Effortless, huh? You think so? You have no idea how much blood, sweat, and coffee went into this.”

You laughed softly. “I can see it. And I admire it.”

Her smirk softened, and she stepped closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “You’re pretty persistent for an intern.”

“I like learning from the best,” you said, heart hammering.

Jenny’s lips curved into a small, almost teasing smile. “Maybe you’re learning more than just fashion.”