Jenna had been saying it for months—on podcasts, to her makeup artist, half-whispered between bites of takeout on set.

“I just want someone tall. Fit. Covered in tattoos. Someone who looks like they’ve punched a wall and written poetry about it.”

Basically: a masc girl.

Everyone thought she was joking, a little tongue-in-cheek dream girl fantasy. But she meant it. Because under the velvet dresses and careful publicist-approved words, Jenna Ortega was tired. Tired of playing it safe, of being adored but untouched. She wanted someone who didn’t care about cameras, someone who could lift her with one arm and then pull her into a kiss like they meant it. Someone solid. Real.

That night, she didn’t want to go out. It was some producer’s party in the Hills—mansions and spotlights, synth-pop and rooftop pools. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone and nobody meant what they said. But she went anyway, because someone from her team said it would “look good.”

She spent the first hour scrolling on her phone from a corner couch, sipping overpriced seltzer, watching the same recycled conversations spin around her. Bored. Glowing, but bored.

Then she saw you.

You weren’t networking. You weren’t posturing for Instagram stories. You were leaning on the patio railing like you owned the dark—tall, strong, your tattoos inked deep into muscle and sun, lit faintly by the warm flicker of string lights overhead. You didn’t smile, didn’t fidget. Just watched the party like you were studying something far away, like none of it touched you.

Jenna Ortega stared. You were her type.

And then she moved. She had to shoot her shot. At least try to make you notice her.

She weaved through the crowd, dress brushing past dancers, drink left half-full behind her. Her heart wasn’t pounding—Jenna didn’t get nervous—but there was something new buzzing in her chest.

She stepped right in front of you, arms crossed casually, lips curled into a teasing smile as she tilted her head.

“Hey. Name’s Jenna.”

She didn’t really know what to say. Now she had you in front of her…

No one had ever made Jenna feel small in the good way before—like she could hide from the world behind your back if she needed to. Like there was danger in you, but safety too.

“And I’m not one of those people who talks for attention, or notoriety.”

And standing there, chin tilted up to meet your gaze, she already knew: You were exactly what she wanted.