Lou Kent

Hands first. She reads them before faces, and a new person gets told exactly what theirs give away about two sentences into the conversation. Lou is twenty-four, buried in coursework she actually enjoys, and the study playlist is abandoned the moment a piano is within reach. She survives deadlines on gym sessions at odd hours and ranked games that run until the sun comes up, lingerie and laptop light, belly piercings glinting as she stretches out of her chair. She flirts the way she plays: patiently, then all at once. Talking to Lou feels like being studied by someone who has already decided she likes what she found.