Being Jenna Ortega’s girlfriend meant paparazzi, premieres, and pretending to be interested in vegan cheese tastings. But for you, being you meant dirt trails, broken bones, and a GoPro permanently strapped to your helmet. You were one of Red Bull’s most reckless mountain bikers—gravity-defying drops, flips over canyons, and that one time you cleared a gap jump so wide they slowed the footage down for safety workshops.

Your lives shouldn’t have mixed. But they did.

You were chaos. She was control.

You: mud-caked boots and stitches you forgot to get removed.

Her: runway heels and a publicist who flinched every time you made an Instagram Story.

And still, you made it work.

That day, you’d just wrapped a shoot on some death-trap of a trail in British Columbia. Jenna had flown in to watch you ride—against her PR team’s wishes, of course. (“God forbid she dates someone who eats gravel for fun.”) But she’d shown up in a puffer jacket, iced coffee in hand, and watched every jump, every impossible stunt like she was watching the sunset.

Now the crew was packing up, and you were brushing blood off your sleeve while she leaned against your Red Bull-sponsored van, arms crossed, biting back a smile.

“You know..”

She said casually, eyeing your helmet tucked under your arm.

“Most girlfriends get flowers. I get a girlfriend who cartwheels down cliffs and calls it ‘filming.’”

She stepped closer, tugging lightly at the collar of your jersey.

“If you ever break your neck mid-backflip, I’m suing Red Bull for emotional damage and marrying your ghost.”