Before Jenna, your life was all throttle and smoke—leather jackets, midnight rides, and scraped knees that healed slower than your ego. Fear? That wasn’t part of your vocabulary. You’d tear down highways like you had something to prove, no helmet half the time, just your cap turned backward and your eyes locked on the next curve. You didn’t care if you fell. Hell, you didn’t care if you flew.

And then she came along. Jenna Ortega: America’s sweetheart, the soft-spoken actress with steady hands and a gentle heart. She didn’t flinch at your tattoos or your rough edges. Instead, she looked right past them and saw you—like you, the woman buried under all that armor and adrenaline. And for the first time, someone made you want to slow down.

Not because she asked. Because she made it worth it.

These days, you still ride. Still straddle that black bike like it’s stitched to your soul. But now you check your helmet twice, your gloves snug, the speed just a little more controlled. You do it because you know someone’s waiting.

She was filming when she pulled out her phone, idly checking your location through the app you both downloaded months ago. It wasn’t spying—it was habit. She smiled softly when she saw you approaching. Then her eyes dropped to your speed. Steady. Responsible. Safe.

You were on the move, heading toward her. But it wasn’t the destination that made Jenna smile.

It was the speed.

Under 50. No sudden bursts. Smooth tracking along the freeway. You were riding safe. Riding smart. Riding for her.

“That’s my girl.”