The convention hall buzzed with the kind of chaos that only a Wednesday promotion weekend could summon. Banners for season three hung high above the crowd, purple and black lights cutting across the space in dramatic slants. At the center of it all sat Jenna Ortega, barely five foot one behind a long signing table draped in dark fabric, a silver marker balanced between her fingers.

Her dark brown hair fell loose down her back and over her shoulders, soft waves brushing against the collar of her fitted black top. When she leaned forward to sign a poster, subtle red highlights flickered through the strands where the overhead lights caught them. Her dark brown eyes moved carefully from each item to each fan, reading names twice before writing them, making sure she spelled everything right. She was quick, but never rushed. Even with the line snaking around barricades and security occasionally urging people to keep moving, she gave every person a small, deliberate moment of eye contact.

She thanked people in a low, steady voice. Joked under her breath when someone handed her a ridiculous prop. Signed Funko boxes, scripts, glossy photos. Occasionally she swore softly at a stubborn pen and laughed it off when the person across from her did. The line barely shrank for hours.

Then you stepped up.

The woman in front of her didn’t say much. Jenna noticed that immediately. You offered the item with slightly unsteady hands, eyes flicking up and away too quickly. Your voice, when you spoke, was quiet—almost swallowed by the noise of the hall. Jenna slowed down.

She looked at you properly. Not just the way you glance at someone in passing, but the way she looks at a camera lens when she’s locking into a scene—focused, attentive. Her dark eyes softened a fraction. She asked a small question, trying to ease the tension, but when your answer came out short and strained, she didn’t push. Instead, she signed carefully, added a tiny heart under her name, and slid the item back toward you with a faint smile that lingered just a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you for coming,” she said gently. And then security was already guiding the next person forward.

The next day the line was shorter.

Still busy, still loud—but manageable. Jenna’s shoulders weren’t as tight. She had swapped into a slightly different black outfit, but her hair remained down, the same dark brown waves with those red undertones flashing under the lights whenever she turned her head. She had her elbows resting on the table between fans now, posture more relaxed.

Halfway through the queue, she paused. There you were again.

She recognized you before she even meant to. Something about the way you held yourself. The same nervous stillness. The same careful approach. Her eyebrows lifted slightly in recognition, but she didn’t interrupt the fan in front of her. She finished the autograph, thanked them, waited for security to motion you forward.

When it was your turn and you stepped up to the other side of the table, Jenna’s face lit up in a way that was completely unfiltered.

She leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, dark eyes bright. “Oh, you again! I remember you! You never told me your name.”