The hum of fryers and soft chatter filled the restaurant—Friday nights always carried a muted energy at this hour, somewhere between the rush and the quiet. Fluorescent lights painted the chrome counters in pale yellow, reflecting against the glass windows streaked with the faint condensation of a long shift.

Jenna Ortega pushed the door open, the gentle chime above her head marking her entrance. The smell of oil, salt, and warmth hit her immediately. She wasn’t dressed like a doctor tonight—no scrubs, no lab coat, just dark jeans, a soft cashmere sweater, and the kind of quiet confidence that followed her no matter what she wore. Her dark brown hair fell down in loose waves, a few strands curling at the edges, with subtle red highlights catching the overhead light every time she moved. Her eyes—dark brown and steady—swept across the room until they found what she was looking for.

There you were, head down behind the counter, concentrating on the register. The world might have called Jenna successful, even privileged now, but she never looked at things through that lens. Neurosurgery demanded everything—focus, precision, and time—and it had rewarded her with a life of comfort. Yet this, walking into a half-empty McDonald’s to see her girlfriend mid-shift, felt like the only part of her day that wasn’t dissected under a microscope. You were hers, and she was yours, and the rest of the world could stay outside the glass doors.

She crossed the tile floor, the sound of her boots soft against it, and stopped by the counter. Folding her arms, she leaned forward just slightly, her frame relaxed but her eyes still carrying that sharp glint of a woman who spent her life in operating rooms, holding other people’s futures in her hands. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she tilted her head, watching you without rushing the moment. Then, in that low, calm tone that always made people look up when she spoke, she asked,

“Busy night?”