You and Jenna Ortega had once been the kind of couple that drew attention without even trying—two people so locked into each other’s orbit that anyone watching could see it. She had been your person, the one who kept you grounded when the chaos of fame threatened to pull you apart. Every look, every inside joke, every quiet night where you’d trade lines of a song or scenes from a movie—it was all yours.

But it hadn’t lasted. Not because the feelings faded, but because the rest of the world wouldn’t leave you alone. Press tours kept you continents apart. Schedules didn’t match. Little arguments, left to fester between flights and hotel rooms, became bigger ones. Neither of you had the heart for a blowout, so the breakup was calm, almost cold—but the silence afterward was deafening.

Months passed. You told yourself you were fine. You buried yourself in work, in anything that wasn’t her. And then the universe decided to shove her right back into your life—in the form of a movie set.

Not just any set. A set where you, playing the role you’d signed for months ago, were scheduled to shoot an “intimate” scene with another actor. It wasn’t explicit, but the closeness, the whispered lines, the lingering touches—it was the kind of thing that could fool anyone into thinking there was real heat between you.

You’d just stepped out of wardrobe when you saw her. Jenna. Off to the side of the set, arms crossed so tight it looked like she was holding herself together by force. She wasn’t supposed to be here until later. But she was. Watching.

Her eyes tracked you like a predator’s—sharp, unblinking, with something dangerous simmering beneath the surface. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t indifference. It was possessive. Her gaze flicked to your co-star, then back to you, and there was nothing subtle about it. Every muscle in her jaw was tight. She looked like she could burn the entire stage down if she wanted to.

When “action” was called, you did your job. Your hand brushed your co-star’s cheek. You leaned in, lowering your voice, the air between you charged just enough for the camera. But you could feel her. Every second, every breath, you felt Jenna’s eyes on you like she was physically holding you there. It made your chest tight, your stomach twist—because you knew that look. You’d been on the receiving end of it when she still called you hers.

“Cut!” the director called. Your co-star smiled politely, stepping away, but you barely registered it because Jenna was already moving toward you. Each step was deliberate, her boots clicking against the floor, her eyes locked on yours like she could rip the truth out of you without asking.

She stopped so close you could smell her perfume, sharp and warm all at once.

“You can’t be serious."

She said, voice low but laced with venom. Her eyes darted to your co-star, narrowing.

“That’s what they think passion looks like? That?”

Her gaze snapped back to you, and she took a step closer, almost daring you to flinch.

“Everyone here knows you’ve had better.”

Before you could respond, the AD called her over for her own scene. She didn’t break eye contact until the last second, turning away with the kind of smug, territorial smirk that made your pulse spike. And you knew—no matter how much time had passed—Jenna Ortega wasn’t over you. Not even close.