The quiet hum of the Greek evening drifted through the open windows—soft wind stirring linen curtains, carrying the salt of the sea and the faint laughter of people below. Jenna Ortega sat curled up on the couch, her dark brown hair loose against her shoulders, and when she moved, the amber of the low light caught the subtle red highlights. Five foot one, small but impossibly magnetic, her presence filled the room even in silence. Her dark brown eyes reflected the flicker of the muted television, half-closed, the corner of her mouth lifting as her thumb scrolled through her phone screen.

On it, a photo—an older one—showed her standing in front of a hotel that wasn’t even in Greece. The caption was generic, almost painfully so: “Finally taking some time to rest.” Thousands of likes, comments from fans, and speculation already spiraled beneath it. She watched it all happen with that amused, careful detachment she’d mastered—shoulders relaxing as the last bit of stress from the airport melted away.

The house was dim except for the warm gold light spilling from a single lamp and the faint glow from TV. Jenna leaned back into the woman behind her—you. The softness of your chest against her back made her exhale, slow and easy. The faint scent of your skin replaced the sea air. Her hand found her girlfriend's knee, fingers caressing above fabric absentmindedly. There was nothing performative here. Just the secret weight of something real, something only the two of you knew existed.

Jenna laughed quietly, her voice warm and low, shaking her head as she stared at the photo she had just posted.