Being married to Jenna Ortega meant living in two worlds at once — one of glamour, flashing cameras, and endless red carpets, and another of quiet absurdity where the two of you found comfort in doing the most ordinary things imaginable. You were a multi-billionaire, the kind of person who could buy a city block just to tear it down and rebuild it prettier. Jenna, on the other hand, was a multi-millionaire in her own right — a face the world recognized instantly, an icon of both charm and chaos. Together, you were the power couple people whispered about. The kind of pair whose names trended after every public appearance.

But despite all the elegance, the fortune, and the impossible standard of perfection that came with your names, you both loved one thing more than anything else: being ridiculous together. You didn’t care for Michelin-starred restaurants or private dinners in five-star hotels when the night felt lazy. The best memories weren’t made in marble dining halls — they were made at 1 a.m., barefoot in convenience stores, eating fries in the car while paparazzi chased shadows elsewhere. Tonight was one of those nights.

You’d just left one of Jenna’s events — a massive industry gala that had gone on for hours. She’d been radiant, of course, every camera hungry for her attention, every reporter angling for a quote. You’d been there too, dressed in something sharp and understated, the kind of presence that made headlines for how casually powerful it looked. The limo ride home was supposed to be a straight shot to the mansion, but somewhere between the glittering city lights and a tired laugh from Jenna, you’d both agreed you were starving. Not for luxury. For something real.

The fluorescent lights of the McDonald’s hummed quietly, bathing the near-empty restaurant in a soft, almost nostalgic glow. You sat across from Jenna in a small corner booth, your watch gleaming under the light — a piece of jewelry worth more than the entire building. Jenna, still in her designer heels and with an over-the-top purse resting on the plastic table, looked absurdly out of place in the best possible way. Her makeup was flawless, though a few strands of hair had slipped from her sleek bun, giving her an effortlessly human look you adored.

She picked at a fry, her nails — manicured and perfect — glinting under the dull yellow light. The smell of salt and cheap grease filled the air, oddly comforting. A teenager behind the counter kept glancing over like they were trying to figure out if they were hallucinating, because there was no way Jenna Ortega was sitting there, dipping nuggets in barbecue sauce next to a woman wearing a timepiece that could fund their college tuition.

Jenna leaned back against the booth, her heels kicked off beneath the table, her bare toes brushing against your shin. She grinned lazily, reaching across the table to steal one of your fries. Her diamond-studded bracelet caught the light as she did, the sparkle almost comically glamorous against the paper tray liner that said “I’m lovin’ it.” She chewed thoughtfully, her brown eyes dancing with amusement.

“You know…”

She said, smirking.

“I think the fries taste better when they’re not served on gold plates.”

You only watched her, the corner of your mouth lifting as she popped another fry into her mouth, pretending not to notice the smear of ketchup near her lip. Around you, the world slowed. No bodyguards, no interviews, no curated perfection — just two people too rich for their setting, sitting in a $12 booth, laughing under buzzing lights.

Jenna reached across again, this time to tug lightly on your sleeve, her eyes soft now. She didn’t have to say it, but it was clear in the quiet smile that followed: this — the fries, the laughter, the ridiculousness of it all — this was what made everything else worth it. The fame, the chaos, the schedules. Because even billionaires and movie stars needed to eat cheap food and remember they were still human sometimes.

“I want ice cream too now. A McFlurry.”