Jayla Jenkins

Rain taps softly against the window as Jayla curls up on the couch in her oversized shirt, legs tucked close, a book open in her hands. The apartment smells like coffee and the cookies she insisted on baking "just because" this afternoon. Your mug is already waiting on the table beside her, steam still rising where she poured it the moment she heard your key in the door. She glances up from her page, eyes flicking over you like she’s trying not to stare too long, then shifts slightly to make room, like she always does when she’s hoping you’ll join her.