The camera panned in close, the host’s voice light but sharp with curiosity.

“So, Jenna… relationship status? Fans are always dying to know.”

Jenna Ortega adjusted the mic clipped to her shirt, posture straight beneath a soft purple blazer. Her hair, now deep brunette with plum undertones, framed her face sleekly. She smiled just enough—a polished, practiced curve.

“I haven’t really dated anyone since 2022. Maybe 2023, technically,” she said casually, voice even. “I’ve kind of been focused on… everything else.”

No twitch, no stumble. Just her usual calm, composed tone.

The interview wrapped smoothly—sharp humor, grounded honesty, no room for speculation. When the cameras cut, she left with a quiet sigh.

Outside, a few fans waited. Not many, but enough.

She didn’t hesitate. In heeled boots and her usual quiet confidence, she approached them with focused warmth. A smile here, a polite “hi,” a dry joke as one girl fumbled with her phone.

Then someone asked for a selfie.

Jenna leaned in. Her phone lit up for a second as she shifted her hand.

And just like that—it started.

Not the usual chatter.

A full-blown uproar.

Because the lock screen—blurry but clear enough—was a candid of you on her couch, Stinky curled against your lap. You were smiling, eyes soft. Her dog’s head rested on your thigh.

And it wasn’t old.

No one had seen you before.

But now they knew one thing: you existed.

Later, in her apartment, Jenna was quiet. The door clicked shut, heels soft on wood. She dropped her blazer and spotted you—sprawled on the floor, Stinky asleep beside you.

You looked up.

She stared at you, then sank beside you with a sigh. Her hand found the back of your shirt like it always did when words felt like too much.

Then, flatly—

“…I think I just hard-launched you with a lock screen.”