The soundstage smelled faintly of sawdust, hairspray, and fresh coffee—an odd but oddly comforting mix. Cables snaked along the floor, cameras were perched on tripods like mechanical vultures, and crew members darted between sets with the quiet urgency of people who knew exactly how much time cost.

Jenna had been in full Wednesday mode earlier, pale makeup still hugging her skin, her hair in the familiar, razor-straight braids. Now, with her character’s black dress swapped for a soft oversized hoodie and jeans, she seemed lighter—shoulders looser, eyes brighter.

She’d insisted on showing you around for a few days while filming wrapped on some key scenes. You had stayed tucked just out of frame, watching take after take. But when you overheard two crew members casually talking about how the writers had decided Wenclair was “definitely not endgame,” your blood boiled before you could stop yourself.

By the time you two slipped away to the little café just outside the studio gates, you were already mid-rant. Your hands moved like punctuation marks—outrage dripping from every motion—as you explained how much representation mattered, how it felt like such a missed opportunity, and how ridiculous it was to sideline something that resonated so deeply with people. You went on about how cruel and unnecessary queerbaiting is—the way it dangles hope in front of an audience only to snatch it away, exploiting their need to see themselves reflected for the sake of engagement and ratings. You pointed out how it reduces genuine identities into tools for marketing, turning longing into a hook and heartbreak into a brand strategy, leaving queer fans feeling foolish for believing in something that was never going to be honored in the first place.

Jenna—your girlfriend—sat across from you at the corner table, one elbow propped on the wood, chin resting on her hand. She wasn’t interrupting—wasn’t even glancing at the menu. She just kept watching you, eyes warm and attentive, her mouth curling into this small, almost disbelieving smile like she couldn’t quite get over what she was seeing.

When you paused for breath, she leaned in slightly. “You’re so cute,” she said, the words low but steady, a little laugh in them. “Do you realize you’ve been fighting for my fictional love life like it’s your personal mission?”

Her tone wasn’t mocking—it was something else entirely. Fondness. Gratitude. Maybe even a little awe. Her gaze lingered like she was imprinting this exact version of you into memory, the way your voice sharpened with conviction, the way your hands still twitched with leftover emphasis.

Outside, the late-afternoon light poured in through the window, turning the steam from your coffee into a golden ribbon between you. Jenna’s fingers tapped lightly on the table before sliding over to find your hand, her thumb moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. Her smile softened into something more thoughtful, her eyes still fixed on you as if she didn’t want to miss a single second of this.

“You have no idea,” she added, “how much it means to have someone care about something just because I care about it.”