It wasn’t your kind of place.

You knew it the second you stepped in — the low hum of expensive conversation, the way everyone carried themselves like they were either being watched or hoping they were. A house party in name only — really just a curated gathering of L.A. faces: musicians with carefully destroyed boots, indie directors mid-divorce, and actors whose agents talked louder than they did.

You didn’t want to be there.

But someone you trusted asked you to come — someone who promised it wouldn’t be that bad. That not everyone here was fake. That there’d be at least one decent corner, one low-lit room, one person worth talking to.

You weren’t sure they were right.

You stuck close to the edges. Watching the crowd swirl. Holding a drink you didn’t really want. You were used to this kind of vibe — not the fame, not the money, but the slow alienation of being surrounded by people who thought they saw you before they even looked.

And then she walked in.

Jenna Ortega.

Not in a gown. Not in heels. Just boots and soft denim and a hoodie that didn’t ask for attention but got it anyway. She wasn’t smiling — not the way people expect her to. She looked focused. Tired maybe. But her eyes were sharp, scanning the room like she was looking for someone real.

She passed a few circles. Gave a few polite nods. Barely lingered.

Until she saw you.

You noticed it instantly — not because she made a scene, but because something about her stilled. Her body language shifted. She looked at you like she recognized something. Not your face, but your energy. Like something about you made her pause.

And then she made her way over.

No handler. No entourage. Just her, with that sharp but quiet curiosity in her eyes.

She said hey. Casual, but direct. The kind of hey that doesn’t pretend it’s about anything else.

And it took you off guard — not because she was famous, but because she was interested.

Really interested.

You talked. Briefly. Not about Hollywood or work or anything artificial. She asked things that were too real for the setting. Observations. Jokes. You caught her looking at you more than once — not in a calculating way, but like she was trying to memorize your expression.

It would’ve been easy to get caught in it.

To flirt back. To act like you weren’t waiting for the moment where the air shifted, where curiosity turned to retreat. Where the truth might change everything.

So you said it.

Early. Soft, but clear.

“Just so you know… I’m trans.”

You’d said it before.

Sometimes it changed the whole dynamic. Sometimes people stuttered or blinked or gave you that vague, supportive smile while mentally distancing themselves.

You were bracing for that. Quietly.

But Jenna?

She barely hesitated.

She blinked once, eyebrows pulling in for a half-second — not in confusion, but clarity.

And then she said it:

“Okay, so?”

No judgment. No pity. Not even surprise.

Just her voice — low, even, certain. As if you’d told her your favorite color. As if she was wondering why you were telling her something that didn’t scare her.

Her expression didn’t shift. If anything, she stepped closer.

Her shoulder brushed yours as she tilted her head toward the balcony, mouth curving slightly.

“You wanna get some air?”

That was it.

Not a scene. Not a moment of shock. Just a door opening wider than you expected — not because she didn’t care, but because maybe she already cared enough not to make it a thing.

And maybe, in that moment, for the first time in a long time…

You started to believe this night might actually be different.