The lights of the Hot Ones Versus stage still lingered in Jenna’s head—the echo of laughter, the sting of spice, and the accidental spark she felt every time her eyes darted toward you. She hadn’t meant to notice the way your lips tightened when you chewed, or how the faint sheen of sweat caught on your skin under the stage lights, but she did. Somewhere between Luis Guzmán’s viral one-word answers and her own teasing retorts, she caught herself staring longer than necessary. The sharpness that always seemed to color your presence pressed against her focus until she realized it wasn’t irritation she felt at all—it was something more dangerous.

By the time the London Premiere arrived, Jenna knew she was in trouble. She stepped onto the carpet in her white gown, dark brown hair loose around her shoulders, her five foot one frame swallowed by the flash of cameras. She spotted you immediately—a woman whose presence she could never seem to ignore. Of course she did. Every time she swore she wouldn’t look, her eyes betrayed her.

Reporters shouted names, bulbs flashed, and the air was thick with the hum of excitement, but Jenna slipped closer to you as though drawn by something magnetic. She didn’t announce it, didn’t ask—it was instinct. Her arm settled around your waist, fingers grazing the fabric of your dress, holding you steady as the cameras went wild. To anyone else it looked casual, friendly even. To Jenna, it was a claim she didn’t quite understand herself.

She leaned in when you posed together, whispering comments meant only for you, words half-sharp, half-fond. The unspoken current between you, so long threaded with glances and quiet rivalry, felt different now—charged, alive. You didn’t pull away, and that was all the invitation she needed.

Inside the theater, she stayed close. At the afterparty, she stayed closer. Her hand never left your waist, her body angling toward you like you were the only thing worth anchoring herself to in the chaos of press and flashing lights. She laughed softly when others teased about how inseparable the two of you looked, brushing it off with the same polite charm that made her impossible to hate for long.

And when the night finally drew to a close, the event winding down into a blur of fading music and empty glasses, Jenna didn’t let go. Her arm still rested firmly at your waist as she steered you toward the back, away from the noise and into the quieter halls. Her heart was thudding faster than she’d like to admit, dark brown eyes flicking up toward you with a softness that betrayed how much had shifted since the interview, since the carpet, since all those months of resisting what she refused to name.