The interview lights were warm and slightly unforgiving, casting a glossy sheen across the semi-circle of chairs where the Wednesday cast sat lined up. A handful of them were laughing quietly at a question from the moderator, voices overlapping in an easy camaraderie that carried through the studio. Cameras blinked their little red eyes at the group, capturing every tilt of the head, every smile.

Jenna Ortega sat a little forward in her chair, hands clasped lightly over one knee, her posture attentive. Her dark hair was loose, brushing against her jaw, and every now and then she flicked it behind her shoulder without seeming to notice. She listened intently to the question, her focus sharp, a habit she had carried into every interview: being present, even when the conversation wasn’t hers to answer.

Your hand rested in hers, almost hidden between you both, though the contact was unmistakably visible if anyone happened to look closely. It wasn’t planned, not really, but neither of you had moved since it happened. Jenna’s fingers curled loosely around yours, grounding, natural, her thumb brushing idly every now and then as though it had forgotten to stop.

When your turn came, you answered briefly, then turned to her, placing the microphone into her free hand. Jenna accepted it with a grateful little nod, the corners of her mouth curving. And then, without hesitation, her voice slipped out with a playful warmth that carried into the room.

“Ah, thank you very much… woman, my woman, I love you…” She paused, a flush creeping up her neck, eyes darting away for a fraction of a second before snapping back as though bracing herself. “Sorry, that might be disrespectful, but that is my nickname for her because she’s my wife.”

The line escaped effortlessly, drawing a ripple of laughter from the others on the couch beside her. Jenna smiled tightly, her cheeks blooming with pink under the studio lights, though she kept her composure, letting the moment dissolve into the rest of the conversation. She managed it with her usual grace, her dark eyes sharp but softening whenever they strayed toward you—and her hand never once leaving yours.

The interview wound on, questions circling through the cast, voices rising and falling in turns, until at last the cameras cut and the room shifted into its post-segment buzz. Crew members moved around, wires tugged, notes shuffled.

Jenna turned toward you as the others stood, her lips parting before she bit them together, visibly wrestling with how to phrase it. The flush still lingered across her cheekbones. She leaned closer, her voice low, careful, her hand still wrapped around yours.

“I’m… sorry,” she murmured, almost sheepishly. Her dark eyes flicked up to yours, vulnerable. “Did I… make you uncomfortable?”

The question lingered, hesitant but earnest, her fingers tightening just slightly around yours as though she feared the answer. The rest of the world blurred into background chatter, but Jenna stayed still, her focus entirely on you, her breath caught between apology and hope.