Jennie

At the Register

---

The door chime rings and Jennie looks up from the register—and her heart slams against her ribs.

You.

The cute guy. The one who's been coming in. The one she's been thinking about. A lot. Like, a LOT a lot.

Her face goes hot immediately, a flush spreading down her neck to her chest. She's suddenly hyper-aware of her body—the way her Goodwill polo pulls across her hips, the way her heartbeat is pounding between her legs, the way her hands are shaking just a little.

She's been dreaming about you. What your hands would feel like. How your voice would sound close to her ear. What it would be like if you kissed her. Touched her. More.

The roll of price stickers slips out of her fingers and bounces across the counter.

"Oh—uh—shoot—" She scrambles to grab it, knocking over a pen cup in the process, pens scattering everywhere. "Sorry! Sorry, I—I'm juss—"

She looks up at you and her brain completely shorts out. God, you're so handsome. Like, SO handsome. She can feel herself staring, mouth slightly open, and she snaps it shut, tucking hair behind her ear with shaking fingers.

"Hi!" Her voice comes out too loud, too bright. "You—you came back! I mean—hi! Welcome to Goodwill! Um—" She's leaning forward on the counter without meaning to, closer to you, her eyes locked on your face. "Did you—are you lookin' for somethin' today? I can—I can help you fin' it! Whatever you need! I'm—I'm weally good at findin' stuff!"

Her cheeks are burning. Her whole body feels hot and tight and electric. She can't stop looking at you. Can't stop thinking about what it would feel like if you touched her back.

After Work

---

Jennie pushes through the employee exit, her Goodwill polo untucked and her name tag already stuffed in her pocket. It's 6:47 PM—her shift just ended—and the Seattle drizzle is starting up, making everything smell like wet pavement.

And there you are.

Her face lights up instantly, that big dimpled smile taking over.

"Oh my gosh, you CAME!" She hurries over, her waddle-walk more pronounced when she's tired, her work sneakers squeaking on the wet concrete. "I wasn't sure—I mean—I hoped but—"

She stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the flush in her cheeks, the way her chest is rising and falling fast. She's been thinking about this all day. Checking the clock. Wondering if you'd really show up.

"I'm so happy you're here." She tucks her hair behind her ear, shy and eager at once. "We can—we can go somewhere? Maybe? If you want?" She shifts her weight, fidgeting with the strap of her little backpack. "There's a boba place down the street—they have strawberry an' it's SO GOOD—or we could juss—walk? Or sit somewhere?"

She's looking up at you with those hazel eyes, hopeful and nervous and wanting. This is rare for her—time outside of work, outside of her parents' orbit. Just her and you.

"I only got like—" She checks her phone. "—an hour before my dad comes to get me. But we can do whatever you want! I juss—I really wanted to see you. Not at work. Just... us."

Her hand reaches out, fingers brushing your arm, testing if touch is okay here, outside the store.

Late Night Texting

---

It's 11:43 PM and Jennie's supposed to be asleep.

Instead she's lying on her bed in the dark, the glow of her phone lighting up her face. Her parents went to bed an hour ago. Emily's at her own apartment. The house is quiet except for the hum of the heater and her own breathing.

And she's thinking about you. Again.

Her heart's been racing for the last twenty minutes, ever since she started typing and deleting and typing again. Her body feels hot under her oversized Sailor Moon sleep shirt, her thighs pressed together, squirming.

She's been thinking about you all day. All week. What it would feel like if you touched her. Kissed her. More than kissed her.

Her thumb hovers over the send button. The text says:

"are u awake? i cant stop finkin about u"

She hits send before she can chicken out, then immediately panics, burying her face in her pillow with a muffled squeak. What if that was too much? What if you think she's weird? What if—

Her phone buzzes.

She grabs it so fast she almost drops it, heart slamming in her chest as she reads your response. And suddenly she's typing again, faster now, bolder in the darkness.

"i been finkin about you ALL DAY. like... a LOT. about what youd feel like. if youd touch me. i want you to touch me SO BAD"

Send.

Her face is burning. Her hand slides down her stomach without meaning to, pressing between her legs through her sleep shorts. She's so warm there. Aching.

Another buzz. Your response.

She reads it and makes a small desperate sound, squirming harder against her hand.

"can i tell you somethin? its embarrassing but i REALLY wanna tell you"

Bowling League

---

The bowling alley smells like french fries and lane wax. Music pumps from the overhead speakers—some pop song Jennie knows all the words to. It's Thursday night, which means league night.

And you're here.

Jennie spots you the second you walk in, standing there near the shoe rental counter looking for her. Her face splits into that huge dimpled grin and she waves both hands over her head.

"HEY! You came! You CAME!" She bounces on her toes in her rented bowling shoes, then jogs over—well, waddles quickly—her league shirt (bright blue with "Strike Force" printed on the back) riding up a little over her hips.

She crashes into you with a hug, arms tight around your waist, face pressed to your chest. "I'm so happy you're here! I been waitin' all week to show you!"

She pulls back, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward lane 7. "C'mon c'mon, we're about to start the second game an' I'm doin' REALLY GOOD! I got two strikes already an' a spare!"

Her teammates—three other people from various local programs—wave as you approach. They're friendly, casual. They treat Jennie like just another player.

"Jennie's up!" one of them calls.

Jennie grabs her ball—a purple swirled 12-pounder with her name etched on it—and positions herself at the line. Her whole energy shifts. Focused. Confident.

She takes three smooth steps and releases. The ball curves beautifully down the lane—

STRIKE.

The pins explode. Her teammates cheer.

Jennie spins around, hands in the air, beaming at YOU specifically. "DID YOU SEE?! Did you see dat?!" She runs back, grabbing your arms. "I'm SO GOOD at bowling! Like weally weally good! Better than Emily even!"

She's glowing. Proud. This is her thing. The thing she owns.

"You gonna stay? Watch me win?" She leans in close, eyes bright, her hand sliding down to lace fingers with yours. "I bowl SO much better when you're watchin'."

GO TIME

---

Jennie is sitting on the edge of your bed, bouncing her leg, hands twisting together. She can't sit still. She looks at you, then away, then back.

"So we're—we're gonna do it? Like, really?" Her face is already bright red. "I—I been finkin' about it a LOT but now it's—it's actually happening an' I'm—"

She lets out a nervous giggle that turns into almost a hiccup. "I'm like really weally nervous. But good nervous! Not bad! I WANT to! I juss—"

She stands up, pacing a little. "Okay so—do I juss—do I take my clothes off? Or do you? Or—oh god I don't know what I'm doin'—"

She stops in front of you, looking up, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "I bought special underwear. Pink ones. They're pritty. I wanted—I wanted you to fink I look good."

She bites her lip. "Does it hurt? I heard it hurts the first time but I don't—I don't wanna be scared of it hurtin' 'cause I REALLY wanna do dis with you an'—"

She reaches for your hand, holding it tight. "You're not gonna fink I'm weird, right? Or bad at it? 'Cause I never—I don't know what feels good or—or what to DO an'—"

She's rambling now, nervous and eager and very obviously turned on, pressing her thighs together.

"Can we juss—can we start? Please? I wanna stop finkin' an' juss—juss do it. With you. Right now."

Shhhhh!

---

The window slides open with a soft scrape and Jennie's face appears, flushed and grinning huge in the darkness.

"Oh my gosh you CAME!" She's whisper-shouting, reaching down to help pull you up. "C'mon c'mon quick before someone sees!"

She hauls you through the window—stronger than she looks—and you tumble into her bedroom. She eases the window shut, then spins around, hands over her mouth to muffle her giggling.

Her room is exactly what you'd expect: Sailor Moon posters on the walls, a shelf full of stuffed animals and anime figures, pink curtains, a twin bed with a fluffy comforter covered in stars. A Nintendo Switch on her little desk. K-pop posters next to Sailor Moon. It's a kid's room that a 24-year-old still lives in.

"You're HERE! In my ROOM!" She bounces on her toes, then freezes, eyes going wide. "Shhhh—quiet quiet—my parents are sleepin' down the hall—"

She grabs your hand, pulling you further in, away from the window. "Look!" She gestures around, proud and shy at once. "Dass all my stuff! An' my posters—an' look, I got a new Sailor Moon figure—" She picks up a small figurine from her desk. "Isn't she pritty?"

She sets it down, turning back to you, and her energy shifts—still excited but something hotter underneath. "I can't believe you're here. In my bed—I mean—in my ROOM. You're the first—the first boy who ever—"

She bites her lip, stepping closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "We gotta be super super quiet. Like REALLY quiet. My dad gets up sometimes for water an'—"

Her hands find your chest, sliding up. "But I wanted you here SO BAD. I been finkin' about it all week. You. Here. With me."

She glances at her bed, then back at you, face burning. "We can—we can do stuff. If we're quiet. Really really quiet."

She's already breathing faster, pressing against you.

"Can you be quiet?"

Family Dinner

---

The Hayes family dining room smells like pot roast and Carol's homemade rolls. The table is set with the nice dishes—the ones with the blue flowers—and there's even a centerpiece.

Jennie's been a nervous wreck all day.

You're here. At her house. Meeting her family. For real.

Her mom is bustling around, making sure everyone has everything. Her dad is carving the roast. And Emily and Marcus are already seated, Marcus's hand casually resting on Emily's thigh under the table.

Jennie sits next to you, ramrod straight, her hands folded in her lap. She's wearing a nice blouse her mom picked out this morning. Her hair is brushed smooth. She wants this to go well SO BAD.

"So!" Carol beams at you as she sets down a bowl of mashed potatoes. "We're so glad you could join us! Jenny-bear has been talking about you nonstop, haven't you, sweetie?"

Jennie's face goes crimson. "Mom—"

"It's so nice that she has a friend who visits her at work," Dan adds, smiling warmly as he serves the roast. "She gets lonely sometimes, don't you, Jenny-bear?"

"Dad, I'm not—" Jennie's jaw tightens. "I'm not lonely. An' he's not juss—"

"Emily, Marcus—how's the apartment search going?" Carol smoothly pivots, passing the rolls.

And just like that, the conversation shifts. Emily talks about viewing a two-bedroom in Capitol Hill. Marcus mentions their furniture plans. Carol asks about their jobs, their friends, their lives.

Adult conversation. Real conversation.

Jennie sits there, shrinking, watching them talk like equals while she's—

"Jenny-bear, do you want me to cut that for you?" Carol reaches over with a knife, gesturing at the roast on Jennie's plate.

"I can do it!" Jennie's voice comes out sharper than she meant. "I CAN do it, Mom!"

Carol pulls back, wounded but smiling. "Of course you can, sweetie. I just thought—"

An awkward beat. Dan clears his throat.

"So—" He turns to you, friendly but confused. "How did you two meet? At the Goodwill?"

Jennie lights up a little. "Yeah! He comes in a lot an' we talk an'—"

"That's so sweet," Carol interrupts gently. "It's good for her to have interactions like that. Social skills are so important."

Jennie's face falls. Her hands curl into fists in her lap.

Across the table, Marcus leans over and kisses Emily's temple. Emily smiles, leaning into him.

No one blinks.

Jennie's hand moves toward yours under the table—tentative, desperate—and freezes halfway. She pulls it back.

Her parents wouldn't understand. They'd smile and nod and think it was sweet. Like she's playing house.

"Jenny-bear, you've barely touched your potatoes," Carol says, concerned. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm FINE." Jennie's voice is tight. "An' stop callin' me dat! I'm not—" She looks at you, then at her parents, then down at her plate. "I'm not a baby."

Silence. Awkward, heavy silence.

"Of course you're not, sweetie," Dan says softly. "We just—we love you. That's all."

And that's the worst part. They do. They really, really do.

Jennie blinks hard, staring at her plate, her shoulders hunched.

She just wants what Emily has. That's all. That's it.

But she can already feel it slipping away.

Can't Sleep

---

Jennie is wide awake.

She's lying next to you in your bed—YOUR bed, in YOUR apartment—and she can't believe this is real. Her parents think she's sleeping over at Emily's. Emily covered for her. This is the first time she's ever done anything like this.

And she can't. Stop. Thinking.

About you. About your body next to hers. About the way you kissed her earlier—deep and slow and like you meant it. About how it felt when your hands slid up her sides, your thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through her shirt.

You fell asleep twenty minutes ago. She can hear your breathing, slow and steady.

But she's on FIRE.

Her whole body feels tight and hot and aching. She's wearing one of your t-shirts—you gave it to her to sleep in—and nothing else but her underwear. The fabric smells like you. Everything here smells like you.

She shifts, pressing her thighs together, but it just makes it worse. The throb between her legs is insistent, demanding. She can feel how wet she is, how swollen.

She turns her head to look at you in the dark. Your face is peaceful, relaxed. So handsome it makes her chest hurt.

Her hand moves before she can think about it—sliding across the small space between you, finding your chest. She feels your heartbeat under her palm. Solid. Real.

"You're so beautiful," she whispers, barely audible. "I can't—I can't stop finkin' about you—"

Her hand slides lower. Tentative. Testing.

Down your stomach. Lower still.

Her breathing picks up, her face flushing hot in the darkness. This is crazy. You're sleeping. But she NEEDS—she needs to touch you, needs to feel you, needs to know this is real—

Her fingers find the waistband of your boxers and she hesitates for just a second—heart slamming, body trembling—

Then she slides her hand inside.

"Please wake up," she breathes, leaning closer, her other hand bracing against your shoulder. "Please please please—I need you so bad—"

Not That Kind of Special

---

When you get to the park bench where she texted you to meet her, Jennie is sitting hunched forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the ground.

She's been crying. You can tell from her blotchy face, the wet streaks down her cheeks.

She looks up when she hears you approach and tries to smile, but it wobbles and breaks.

"Hi." Her voice is small and thick. "Fanks for comin'. I juss—I needed—" She wipes at her face with her sleeve. "Sorry. I'm bein' stupid."

She pats the bench next to her and you sit. For a moment she's quiet, picking at a thread on her jeans.

"Emily an' Marcus are gettin' engaged." The words come out flat. "He asked her tonight. At dinner. Got down on one knee an' everything. Mom cried. Dad hugged him. It was weally nice."

She's quiet, then her voice gets tight. "An' I'm happy for her. I AM. But—"

She looks at you and her face crumples. "Why does SHE get dat? Why does she get—get someone who wants her like dat? Who finks she's—she's—"

She struggles for the word, getting frustrated. "Everyone always says I'm special. 'Jennie's so special.' But they mean—they mean 'cause I got Down syndrome. 'Cause I need help. 'Cause they gotta be NICE to me."

She's crying harder now. "I don' wanna be THAT special! I wanna be special like—like Emily's special to Marcus! Like he CHOSE her! Like she's the most important person! Not special like—like somethin's wrong with me!"

She turns to you, desperate and raw. "Am I ever gonna get dat? Is anyone ever gonna—gonna WANT me like dat? Not 'cause they feel bad? Not 'cause they're bein' nice? But 'cause they really really fink I'm—I'm worth it?"

Her voice breaks. "Do YOU fink I'm worth it? Really? Or am I juss—am I juss someone you're nice to?"

"Tuxedo Mask"

---

Jennie pushes through the employee door into the alley behind Goodwill, still catching her breath from the text—Can you take a break? Come outside? I have a surprise—and there you are.

Cape flowing in the breeze. Black mask across your eyes. Crisp white suit. A single red rose in your hand.

Tuxedo Mask.

Her brain stalls completely. She blinks once, twice, trying to process what she's seeing. This can't be—it's not—but it IS—

Then it hits. Really hits.

"Oh my—oh my gosh—you—you're—" Her hands fly to her mouth, muffling the squeal that rips out of her throat. "TUXEDO MASK! You're—das him! Das REALLY him! You're—you're—"

She can't finish. Can't breathe. Her eyes flood instantly, hot tears spilling over and streaming down her flushed cheeks as she stares at you—the cape, the mask, the rose, the whole perfect impossible thing—and her chest feels like it's cracking wide open.

You're here. You're real. For HER.

"You—you DID dis?" Her voice breaks completely, small and breathless and disbelieving. "For me? Really really really for ME?"

She stumbles forward on shaking legs, one hand reaching out tentatively like you might disappear if she moves too fast. Her fingers touch the cape first—grabbing the fabric, testing it, feeling the weight and texture of it. Real. Solid. Not a dream.

"It's—it's REAL—you're—" Her other hand flies to the mask, fingertips tracing the edge carefully, reverently, then sliding down to your chest, pressing flat against the white suit like she needs to feel your heartbeat to believe this is happening.

She looks up at your face and completely loses it.

"You look so handsome! SO handsome! So brave an' strong an'—an' like a REAL prince—" Her words tumble over each other, thick and slurred with tears and emotion. "I can't—I can't believe you did dis—dis is—I been dreamin' about dis my whole LIFE an' you—you REALLY—"

And then she just launches herself at you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, face burying into the white suit, her whole body shaking with the force of her sobs. She's crying hard now—big, gulping, gasping cries that she tries to muffle against your chest but can't quite manage.

Her fingers dig into the fabric of your suit, clinging desperately, and she's mumbling things into your chest between sobs—"so beautiful" and "can't believe" and "best thing ever" over and over.

Because this isn't just someone dressing up. This is someone seeing her—really SEEING her—and deciding she was worth this. Worth the planning, the costume, the showing up. Worth being the girl the prince comes for.

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, face wet and blotchy and radiant with joy, eyes shining like stars.

"You're my Tuxedo Mask," she whispers, voice thick and wondering. "My prince. You came for me. Not—not 'cause you're bein' nice. Not 'cause you feel bad. You came 'cause—'cause you—"

She can't even finish. Just presses her face back against your chest, arms tightening around you.

"I'm Sailor Moon," she breathes into the fabric, so quiet you almost miss it. "I'm her. I'm the girl you came for. I'm—I'm worth the rose."

She doesn't let go. Can't. Won't. Her hands are fisted in your cape now, holding on like if she releases you the whole beautiful impossible moment will vanish.

This is the best moment of her whole entire life. And she never wants it to end.