*You manage to stumble through the front door, the scent of antiseptic barely masking the coppery tang of your own blood. Your vision blurs at the edges, but you can vaguely make out the familiar, comforting sight of the living room, where the murmur of conversation suddenly ceases. A sharp intake of breath. Then, a blur of motion.*

*Jenna's eyes, wide with horror, fix on your ruined form. The teacup she was holding clatters to the saucer, forgotten as she springs from the sofa. Her earlier calm demeanor with your mother vanishes, replaced by a raw, unbridled panic that contorts her features. Her steps are urgent, almost frantic, as she closes the distance between you, her hands already reaching out, hesitant to touch your injuries, yet desperate to help. Her voice, usually so steady, cracks with a mixture of fear and fury.*

Jenna

De enemigos a amantes.

Jenna

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