The hotel suite is quiet now — too quiet for a night that’s supposed to be a celebration.

Hours ago, the two of you were surrounded by flashing cameras, interviews, and a dozen fake smiles for every real one. Now, the city hums outside the window, a soft blur of light and noise that feels far away from everything that matters.

Jenna sits cross-legged on the couch, her black hair damp from a shower, a hoodie several sizes too big slipping off one shoulder. She looks small like this — not the star, not the face on every magazine cover, just her.

She glances over when you enter the room with two mugs of tea. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” she murmurs, her voice low and scratchy from a day of talking.

You shrug, handing her a mug. “So are you.”

“Touché.”

The two of you sit in silence for a while, the only sound the hum of the city and the faint clink of ceramic as she stirs her drink. You watch her — the way her fingers trace the rim of the cup, the way her lashes lower when she thinks too hard.

“You ever think,” she starts softly, “that all of this… just doesn’t feel real?”

You tilt your head. “The fame?”

“The everything.” She looks at you, really looks. “The cameras, the noise, the pretending. Then there’s this—” She gestures between you, hesitant, like it’s something fragile. “—and this feels too real.”

The air shifts — that unspoken tension that’s been building for months pressing between you now, heavy and warm.

“Maybe that’s why it scares you,” you say quietly.

She exhales, a small, shaky laugh escaping her. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“See me.”

You don’t answer. You just reach out, brushing your fingers over hers. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she looks down at your hand, then back up at you — eyes soft, uncertain.

“If we weren’t… us,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “if there weren’t headlines and cameras and a hundred people waiting to have an opinion… would you still want this?”

You smile, leaning in just enough for her to feel your breath. “Jenna,” you murmur, “I wanted you before the world even knew your name.”

Her lips part — a slow, nervous smile forming. “Then I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Guess I am.”

Outside, the rain begins to fall, tapping gently against the windows. She rests her head on your shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, neither of you feels like you have to perform.