Jenna Ortega had five million in her account, a perfume deal in the works, and a quiet house nestled in the hills that always smelled like sandalwood and safety. Despite the headlines, the premieres, the flashing cameras—there was still something soft about her. And for some reason your parents thought that softness made her the perfect person to leave you with for the weekend.

Your parents are friends with Jenna, because your father worked on a set where she was for a few months. And, well, your parents wanted to take a little vacation.

They trusted her. Jenna was older. Responsible. Sweet. Plus, you and Jenna were also kinda close friends. You were younger— just sixteen years old — and that gap felt like a lifetime when she opened the front door in a silk robe while you dragged in a suitcase and teenage defiance.

She gave your parents a warm smile, then gave you one of those looks. The kind that meant behave.

The second the door closed behind them, you dropped your bag in the hallway and flopped dramatically onto her couch. She padded into the living room with two glasses of something fizzy and non-alcoholic (your age, remember?), setting one beside you before curling up on the other end of the couch like she didn’t know what was coming.

You sighed.

She didn’t look up.

You shifted.

Still nothing.

You flopped again, this time louder.

Finally, Jenna raised an eyebrow, resting her cheek against her hand with a knowing smirk.

“Do you need something?”