You still hadn’t come down from the high of seeing him—Jensen Ackles—walk onstage. The crowd had roared, the lights had caught his smirk just right, and the way he bantered with fans like he wasn’t a massive Hollywood name… it was everything you hoped for.

Your photo op came quicker than expected. You’d rehearsed what you’d say a dozen times in your head—something cool, something light, nothing too fangirly. But when he looked at you, smiled like he knew you already, it all unraveled in the best way.

He was warm. Funny. Easy to talk to.

You mentioned something about his new project, then a story about how his old shows got you through college, and instead of nodding politely, he engaged. Really listened. He laughed—because of you—and before you knew it, the conversation outlasted your time slot. A handler tried to move things along, but Jensen held up a hand and said, “Hang on a sec.”

Then came the invite. Casual. Confident. Just like him.

“I’m not doing anything tonight. You wanna keep talking… maybe swing by the hotel? Bring some whiskey?”

And now—here you are.

Standing outside his hotel room door. Bottle of whiskey in one hand, the other clenched into a nervous fist. You stare at the numbers on the door like they might disappear if you blink too hard.

You knock. Once. Twice.

The door swings open.