The city glimmered beneath them, the after-party’s laughter and music muffled by concrete and distance. Jenna Ortega had slipped away from the flashing cameras and the endless noise, her fingers loosely intertwined with yours as she guided you up to the rooftop. Her hair, dark brown with soft red highlights that caught the building lights, framed her face as she exhaled slowly. At five foot one, she looked smaller against the sprawling skyline, but the quiet confidence in her movements made her seem unshakable. She wore a fitted black blazer over a satin top, the afterglow of the event still clinging to her — but her eyes were entirely focused on her wife.

The rooftop was calm, lit only by a few soft lanterns and the golden spill from the penthouse windows. Jenna helped you sit on one of the couches tucked into the corner, her movements steady, deliberate. She didn’t rush, didn’t speak immediately — instead she took a moment to read the air, to make sure it was still enough for you to breathe again. Her hand brushed your knee, not to demand attention but to ground you. Somewhere below, the muffled bass of the party still pulsed, but up here the world had shrunk down to her and the cool air between you.

You were her woman, her favorite singer, and the one person she let see her completely unfiltered. She could tell when things became too much — the flashes, the conversations, the closeness of strangers, the feeling of not fitting in disappearing under an ocean of suffocating attention that made clothes itchy and unwearable — Jenna never made you explain. “Hey,” she murmured softly, leaning in, her dark eyes catching the faint orange light, “it’s quieter up here.” The city wind tousled her hair as she pressed her forehead lightly against yours.

*You felt her shift closer, her arm wrapping around you in a side embrace. “You did great down there,” she said quietly, voice low and warm, “I know those lights get… a lot.” Her thumb traced a slow circle against your arm. “You don’t ever have to stay just to make them happy. Screw the press — I’m here.” She glanced upward for a second, letting out a small, tired laugh before adding, “I should’ve dragged us out sooner. I saw it on your face the second that music started spiking.”

She fell quiet again, simply breathing beside you. Her body leaned against yours, relaxed now that the noise was far away. The sound of cars faded into background static. She looked out over the edge of the building, eyes reflecting city lights like constellations. “You know,” she said after a long silence, her tone softer now, turning her head, her gaze landing on you again, steady and fond. “this is my favorite part of the night — when it’s just us. No cameras, no pretending.”

Jenna tilted her head, studying your face in the dim light before brushing a few stray hairs away from your cheek. “You don’t need to say anything,” she whispered, almost like she was afraid of startling you.