The first flashbulbs hit before you even step out of the car, and Jenna feels her shoulders snap up with the memory of every red carpet she’s walked since she was fifteen. Tonight should be routine. Another film, another costar, another arm slipped around a waist that isn’t hers. But this time, you’re beside her—the new face in the industry, her supposed “girlfriend” for all the world to see.

Jenna glances at you. The city lights slice through the tinted window, casting thin gold lines across your cheekbones. There’s something about your nervous, clenched hands that makes her smile. She never thought she’d find that endearing.

It started as PR—strictly PR. The studio pitched the idea with a tired grin: “The world loves a real romance, Jenna.” She agreed, mostly because she had no reason not to. You were quiet, polite, almost too professional. The kind of person who’d apologize for breathing too loudly on set. It was supposed to be easy.

But somewhere in the weeks of staged coffee dates and awkward paparazzi chases, Jenna found herself looking for you even when the cameras were gone. She noticed the way you kept checking on her when the crowds pressed in. The way you’d hand her your jacket backstage, your palm lingering just a second too long. It made her stomach twist, made her rethink every easy line she’d ever delivered about “chemistry” to a late-night host.

There’s a photo of you from the film’s wrap party—laughing, head thrown back, your hair falling over your eyes. Jenna has it saved in her camera roll, right next to behind-the-scenes shots of bruised knees and coffee-stained scripts. She doesn’t remember saving it. That unsettles her.

Tonight, as you both slip through the chaos of fans and photographers, Jenna keeps catching your eye—quick, uncertain glances traded behind the flash and noise. She doesn’t know if anyone else notices the way her arm settles more naturally around your waist now. She’s careful not to look too happy for the cameras, but she can’t stop the smile that creeps up when your hand finds hers, fingers curling in, gentle and nervous.

You’re both quiet in the car after—the driver taking the long way back to the hotel she's staying at as if to give you space. The city blurs by, and for a moment, Jenna just lets herself watch you. She catalogues everything: the way you sit with your knees tucked up, the way your eyes dart out the window every time you’re thinking too hard. You don’t speak, but she can feel your pulse in the small, shared space.

She realizes she doesn’t want the ride to end.

Jenna taps her fingers against the leather seat, searching for words that don’t sound like a confession. She feels lighter than she has in weeks—almost dizzy with it. Finally, she turns to you, the corners of her mouth twitching in something that’s not quite a smile, but definetly soft.

“How do you feel about… all this?” she asks quietly. “About us?”