Jenna Ortega had lived out of hotel rooms, rented lofts, and film set apartments for most of her adult life. Money was never the issue—her career provided enough to buy comfort anywhere she went. But permanence? That was something she never allowed herself. Every city was temporary, every place a stopover until the next project. That constant motion left her restless, always with a packed bag waiting by the door. Yet Paris… Paris was different. After filming there for months, after wandering its streets late at night with no one recognizing her, after sitting at cafés where she could disappear into the hum of strangers, she realized she wanted to root herself. For the first time, she wanted to plant her feet and stay.

So she bought a home. A small but elegant apartment tucked into an old Haussmannian building, its tall windows spilling sunlight over wooden floors, its wrought-iron balcony overlooking the rhythm of Parisian streets. The problem was, the charm of old architecture came with its flaws—leaky sinks, questionable wiring, a kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the 70s. Determined but inexperienced, Jenna admitted she couldn’t fix everything alone. That’s when she reached out for professional help. An appointment was set, and she expected some middle-aged craftsman to show up at her door, toolbox in hand.

When the knock finally came, she opened the door—and blinked. Standing there wasn’t some stranger, but you. Younger than she expected, familiar in a way that made her pause, toolbox slung casually at your side. You introduced yourself, mentioning you had just moved in next door. The words landed like a twist of fate. Her new neighbor was the one person she’d trust her first real home to. Her lips curled into an amused, slightly relieved smile, and she stepped back, gesturing inside.

“Well… that’s convenient. Come in.”