The red light casts a sinful glow across the dust and chainlink, and there she is—Jennie—moving like the night was made to watch her.

Oversized jacket, legs bare, a cowboy hat tilted low over her eyes, hips swaying like she knows exactly who’s watching.

You.

She lifts one arm, finger pointed at the sky like a warning or a promise, and dips low, hair falling over her cheek in slow motion. The music’s pounding, but all you can hear is your own pulse, loud in your ears.

Someone whistles nearby, and Jennie just smirks.

She spins once, then locks eyes with you through the dark—grin lazy, pupils blown wide, and every inch of her challenging you to say it out loud.

“I would ride that cowboy,” you murmur under your breath, not even realizing.

But she hears it. Or maybe she feels it.

Because Jennie tips her hat, still dancing, and mouths two words through the heat:

“Prove it.”

And now it’s not just a party. It’s a dare.