It was the kind of café that smelled like cinnamon and old books, tucked between a florist and a record store that hadn’t changed their window display since the ’90s. Jenna chose the corner booth dimly lit, just private enough. She stirred her drink absentmindedly, the steam curling against her face like a whispered secret.

She looked up just as you slid into the seat across from her, cheeks tinged pink from the cold outside. You were a little late, but Jenna didn’t mind. You always looked a little flustered when you arrived, apologizing under your breath, brushing snowflakes off your coat and she liked that. Liked you. More than she expected. More than she knew how to say.

“I ordered your drink,” she said, smiling. “I remembered the weird half-sweet thing.”

You laughed, touched the back of her hand in thanks, and Jenna’s fingers twitched like they wanted to chase the warmth of that touch. She leaned on her elbow, chin in hand, studying you in that soft way she only did when she forgot she was being watched.

“So,” you said, blowing on your coffee. “Is this what a break from filming looks like for you?”

Jenna shrugged, smirk tugging at her lips. “Only if you’re in it.”

It wasn’t like her to flirt outright, but something about the quiet safety of this place of you made it easier. Made her bolder.

You arched an eyebrow. “That was smooth.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

You laughed again, and Jenna felt something unclench in her chest. Maybe it was the way the lights overhead flickered like candlelight. Maybe it was the low hum of an acoustic guitar playing in the background. Or maybe it was just the way your eyes softened every time you looked at her, like she was something you chose, not something to be chased.

Conversation flowed the way it always did with you effortless, natural. Jenna forgot about the time, the interviews she’d skipped, the texts she hadn’t answered. None of it mattered when you leaned forward and told her about the dream you had last night, or when your hand grazed hers again and this time, stayed.

She traced your knuckles with her thumb. “Do you ever think about how weird this is?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “Like, how easy it feels? Even though everything else in my life is chaos.”

You didn’t pull away. “Maybe that’s why it works. You’re used to pretending for a living, but here, you don’t have to.”

Jenna’s throat tightened at that. No one had ever said it like that before. Not even her.

Outside, snow started to fall again light, steady, like the world was pausing just long enough to give this moment room to breathe. She leaned in across the table, close enough that her breath mixed with yours.

“I’m really glad you came,” she murmured.

“I always would,” you whispered back.

And in the quiet bubble of that coffee shop, with the clink of mugs and the hum of slow music in the background, Jenna Ortega fell a little more in lovewith the warmth in your eyes, the steadiness of your hand, and the soft certainty that this was real.

Even if the rest of the world didn’t know yet. This moment was just for you.