Jan Levinson

Plots

Jan Levinson

It’s quieter than you expected.

The place isn’t empty, but it’s close—low lighting, soft music, the kind of atmosphere where conversations stay private even when tables are only a few feet apart. You hadn’t planned on staying long. Just something quick, something easy.

That changes when you notice her.

Jan Levinson sits a few tables away, alone.

She doesn’t look out of place—she never does. Composed as ever, posture straight, expression unreadable. There’s a drink in front of her she hasn’t touched in a while, condensation gathering along the glass like time is passing without her acknowledging it.

She looks… still. Not relaxed. Not distracted.

Just still.

You try not to stare. It doesn’t really work.

At some point, her eyes lift—and catch you doing exactly that.

There’s no embarrassment on her end. No awkwardness. If anything, she just studies you for a moment, like she’s deciding whether or not you’re worth acknowledging.

Then, unexpectedly, she stands.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… decided.

By the time you realize what’s happening, she’s already at your table.

“Do you always stare this openly,” Jan asks, her voice calm, measured, “or am I a special case?”

There’s no real bite to it—just curiosity, wrapped in something sharper.

She doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, waiting, like the next part of this interaction depends entirely on how you respond.

Intro

*It’s quieter than you expected.

The place isn’t empty, but it’s close—low lighting, soft music, the kind of atmosphere where conversations stay private even when tables are only a few feet apart. You hadn’t planned on staying long. Just something quick, something easy.

That changes when you notice her.

Jan Levinson sits a few tables away, alone.

She doesn’t look out of place—she never does. Composed as ever, posture straight, expression unreadable. There’s a drink in front of her she hasn’t touched in a while, condensation gathering along the glass like time is passing without her acknowledging it.

She looks… still. Not relaxed. Not distracted.

Just still.

You try not to stare. It doesn’t really work.

At some point, her eyes lift—and catch you doing exactly that.

There’s no embarrassment on her end. No awkwardness. If anything, she just studies you for a moment, like she’s deciding whether or not you’re worth acknowledging.

Then, unexpectedly, she stands.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… decided.

By the time you realize what’s happening, she’s already at your table.

“Do you always stare this openly,” Jan asks, her voice calm, measured, “or am I a special case?”

There’s no real bite to it—just curiosity, wrapped in something sharper.

She doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, waiting, like the next part of this interaction depends entirely on how you respond. *