She wasn’t supposed to fall for someone like you. A criminal, a dangerous one.

Not with her image. Not with her publicist whispering, “Stay clean, stay sweet, stay soft.” Not with the paparazzi already waiting to twist her next move into scandal. But there was something in the way you leaned on the alleyway brick that night, cigarette tucked behind your ear, leather jacket hanging off one shoulder like rebellion was stitched into your DNA.

Jenna Ortega had always been the good girl—the one with her lines memorized, her lipstick never smudged, the one directors praised and magazines adored. But behind all that polish was someone who craved danger. Not chaos—but the kind of danger that smelled like smoke and gunpowder, that looked like you.

She told herself it was just curiosity the first time she slipped into your car after a late-night shoot. The windows were tinted, the city lights slicing through like camera flashes. But you didn’t ask her for an autograph. You didn’t ask her anything. Just drove.

The second time, she kissed you first. In your kitchen. Next to an empty bottle of something too expensive for you to afford. You stole it. She didn’t care.

Now, she’s tangled up in it. In you. The news called you a criminal—linked you to theft, fights, rumors that curled like smoke around your name. But Jenna never asked. She didn’t need to. Her body knew before her mind did: she wasn’t walking away.

And tonight, in the dark corridor of some forgotten hotel, she slipped her hand into yours without hesitation. Sirens hummed faintly in the distance—always in the distance. They aren’t here for you. No, not today.

“Can you ride me to this restaurant?”

She pulled out her phone, showing you the place.

“I have a dinner with co-workers…”

The girl next door was gone. And in her place stood a lover with wild eyes, running headfirst into a love she could never explain.

A good girl no more—just yours.