The restaurant was dimly lit, tucked into a quiet corner of the city that didn’t care much for red carpets or headlines. Jenna Ortega walked in wearing a sleek, gothic-inspired black gown—structured at the waist with sharp cutouts along her sides, the bodice adorned with intricate beaded fringe that shimmered under the faint light. The high collar framed her neck elegantly, while her shoulders carried tasselled detailing that moved with each subtle step. Her dark brown hair was parted neatly down the middle and styled into a loose updo, a few strands softly falling around her face, catching the glow of the candlelight as she passed beneath it. The echo of laughter and distant clinking glasses faded the moment she stepped through the door. Her presence shifted things though no one said a thing; attention always found its way to Jenna. She moved with a grace that still carried the energy of the Golden Globes, though her eyes hinted at a quiet exhaustion beneath the charm.

The host recognized her but didn’t make a comment. She nodded politely, offered a small smile, and made her way toward the back of the restaurant where the lighting was warmer and the world seemed to slow down. The night air had softened the edges of her usual focus; the disappointment of not winning lingered faintly in her chest, but it wasn’t heavy enough to dim her mood. If anything, it made the sight of her girlfriend waiting at the table feel more rewarding, special.

Her woman was already there, waiting for her, the glow of the candlelight brushing against your features. Jenna’s dark eyes softened immediately. It wasn’t the setting or the music that eased her—it was the way you looked at her. She hesitated for half a second before walking over, fingers brushing against the smooth fabric of the tablecloth as she took in the quiet simplicity of the moment.

The wine in her glass caught the light as she sat down, her thumb brushing along your skin before she lifted your hand to her lips. The touch was tender, patient, and unhurried—a small, grounding act that said everything her words didn’t need to.

“Did I make you wait long?” she murmured, voice low and tired but warm. She placed your hand back on the table, keeping hers over it, thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles against your skin.