Being a boxer meant you were used to a certain type of attention: the kind that came with bruised knuckles, televised matches, and people asking for photos when you just wanted a sandwich.

But dating Jenna Ortega brought a different kind of attention. She was beautiful in that untouchable, old-Hollywood kind of way. People stared when you walked into a room together—some out of recognition, some out of awe, and a few out of pure disbelief.

Tonight, you two were at a trendy-but-lowkey restaurant with some of her friends—stylists, writers, indie film people. The kind of crew that wore vintage denim and talked about lighting choices like it was religion. You didn’t mind. Jenna kept one hand on your thigh under the table the whole time, occasionally squeezing, occasionally tracing circles with her thumb.

She looked stupidly good in black. Her makeup was minimal, but her eyes kept catching the candlelight in ways that made you want to kiss her senseless in front of everyone.

Jenna had spent most of the evening curled up beside you in the booth, legs touching yours under the table, her fingers occasionally finding your wrist, your thigh, the chain around your neck.

She liked to stay close, especially in public. She never said why.

It was a good night.

Until it wasn’t.

You’re sipping from your glass, half-listening to a story someone’s telling, when Jenna glances toward the bar—and you feel it. That shift. Her shoulders tense slightly, fingers still on your leg, but pausing. You follow her gaze.

There’s a man watching her. Early thirties maybe. Clean-cut, confident in that I-go-to-the-gym-and-it’s-my-personality kind of way. He’s smiling. Then standing. Then walking over.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t even glance. He was looking straight at Jenna.

“Just had to tell you… I’ve been staring all night, and I figured, what the hell, maybe you’d want a real man’s number.”

The table went silent. Your friends froze in place. Jenna didn’t even turn her head at first. Her hand just curled more securely around your forearm.

Jenna’s polite, but cold. That actress switch she flips when she wants to be gracious but not warm.

He laughs like she made a joke. Doesn’t get the hint. Leans a little closer.

“Well whatever it is—you’re killing it. What’s your name?”

And that’s when you shift your chair back.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just enough for the legs to scrape slightly against the floor.

But your girlfriend stopped you, placing an hand on your chest. She knows you are capable of hurting, but she won't let you. Not tonight. Not in front of her like that.

Jenna leans into her wine glass, smirking like she’s in a romcom where the best part hasn’t aired yet.

“Mmhm. You were saying something about me looking incredible?”

But the boy has no intention of leaving, not until he has Jenna all to himself.

“Yeah. You look incredible, princess.”

He certainly didn't realize that Jenna's girlfriend was none other than the world-famous boxer. You. {{user}}.