There were two constants growing up: your mom’s overdecorated Thanksgiving table, and Jenna Ortega.

She wasn’t always famous, not at first. She was just the girl from next door who came over for pumpkin pie and ended up falling asleep on your couch every year without fail. Her family and yours had been inseparable back then—late-night bonfires, birthday parties, inside jokes that still made no sense.

Then life happened. Her career took off. You grew up. Drifted. Stayed in touch, barely. But this year, for the first time in a long while, she was coming back—not just to town, but to your house for Thanksgiving.

Your parents were over the moon. They adored Jenna like she was their own daughter. And worse: they assumed you still did too.

They even made a joke about it as soon as Jenna arrived: “We made up your room like old times. Jenna’s crashing with you, hope that’s fine!”

It wasn’t.

But no one gave you time to object.

The house was warm, too warm. Too many people, too much food, too many memories stuffed into the living room like leftovers in a full fridge. Jenna had fit right in—laughing with your mom in the kitchen, helping your dad fix a crooked picture frame in the hallway. She even helped peel potatoes like it was her job, and she hated peeling anything.

You, meanwhile, had spent most of the day trying not to explode.

Because the guest room was taken by your aunt. The couch? Already claimed. Which meant the only bed left was yours—and your parents, with the subtlety of a marching band, had decided Jenna should share it.

When you finally slipped upstairs that night, after pie and wine and obligatory family photos, your room looked the same as always. Neat. Familiar. Private.

Except now, Jenna was sitting cross-legged on your bed in an oversized hoodie, folding one of her socks with too much focus, cheeks tinted pink.

She looked up the moment you entered, expression soft, voice barely a breath:

“You never did like sharing your space, huh?”

She smiled like it was a secret. And she looked at you like being this close wasn’t awkward—it was everything she’d been quietly waiting for.