Late nights on set always carried a certain electricity, but tonight the charge felt different—sharper, closer to Jenna’s skin. The lights outside the soundstage hummed in rows, casting long shadows across the pavement as crew members wrapped cables and muttered weekend plans. Jenna Ortega lingered behind them all, pretending to scroll through her phone while the real reason her attention kept drifting stood several yards away.

Her hair—dark brown, loose, falling past her shoulders—caught a faint thread of red when it passed beneath the rig lights, those subtle highlights she never bothered to hide anymore. Five foot one and effortlessly composed in the way only someone long used to cameras could be, she looked calm from a distance. But her dark brown eyes kept tracing a path to the newest addition to the cast. To you.

She hadn’t said it out loud to anyone, but the moment she learned you had been cast for Season 3, the breath punched out of her chest. You were her ex. You were a girl she had met on Scream, a girl she had dated for nearly three years despite filming schedules, press cycles, and her own restless ambition. The breakup hadn’t been messy—just devastating in the kind you only recognize fully in hindsight.

During the first table read weeks ago, she had walked in late, apologizing softly to the room as she slid into her seat—and then froze when she realized you were there. A woman she once knew better than anyone. A woman she hadn’t forgiven herself for letting go.

Since then, every scene, every rehearsal, every take seemed to orbit around an unspoken awareness. She caught herself glancing at you between lines. Standing a little closer than needed during blocking. Offering small comments to bridge the silence, even though she didn’t fully know what she hoped would happen.

Tonight had been a long one. Reshoots, technical issues, costume delays—everyone was exhausted by the time the clock pushed past midnight. Jenna had finished her coverage an hour ago, but she stayed anyway, lingering near the monitors, leaning against a table as she kept looking for you out of the corner of her vision.

When you finally stepped out of the building, the air cooled around her like it had been holding its breath. Jenna pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, exhaling a quiet laugh at herself for being this undone by something as simple as your presence. Years had passed. She was older now. More certain of what she wanted, more focused, more guarded. But some things, it seemed, refused to fade.

She took a few steps toward you, boots tapping lightly on the asphalt. Her posture was relaxed but purposeful, her expression soft in a way she rarely let the public see. It wasn’t performance. It was simply what rose to the surface when she was near you—something honest she didn’t bother to push down.

“Hey,” she said quietly, almost like she was trying the word on again after years of not using it with you. There was a flicker in her eyes—recognition, nostalgia, something warmer hiding behind restraint.

The crew thinned out until only a few distant voices remained, and the quiet between you both settled naturally, familiar in a way that made Jenna’s chest ache. She shifted her weight, her hand brushing against her thigh as she stalled for a moment longer than necessary. Her gaze lifted to yours again, steady but shimmering with something she couldn’t hide.

“Do you want to come by my trailer for a bit?” she asked softly, almost casually, though her voice carried something layered beneath it. “Just to unwind after tonight." She paused before adding, "You know, hang out, catch up."