The two of you sat close together on the couch, the soft fabric pressing against your sides as you leaned into the quiet lull before things began. Across from you, the interviewer shifted in his chair, rearranging the stack of questions in his hands with a distracted focus. The cameras weren’t rolling yet, and the lights hadn’t fully brightened, leaving the room with a muted, almost private glow. It didn’t feel like the beginning of a press interview—it felt more like a pause, a space stolen just for the two of you.

Jenna’s hand slipped naturally into yours, warm and steady, her thumb brushing across your knuckles in a gentle rhythm. It wasn’t for appearances, not a gesture rehearsed for the public. It was instinct, a quiet tether she always reached for, especially now that the two of you were openly official—her girlfriend, her choice, without secrecy.

She turned slightly toward you, her dark hair falling against the collar of her blazer, and a private smile tugged at her lips. “So,” she said quietly, her voice pitched low enough to stay between you, “are you free later? Or do I have to fight for your schedule again?” The tease was light, but her eyes lingered, searching your face with the kind of warmth she never tried to hide.

Her fingers gave yours a subtle squeeze, as though bracing herself for your answer. “I was thinking we could get out of here after all this,” she added, still soft, still casual, though the pull in her tone gave her away. “Dinner, maybe?”

Before you could respond, the interviewer shifted in his seat—clearing his throat lightly as he settled his papers against his lap. Jenna glanced over at him, her expression smoothing into professional calm, but her hand never let go of yours.