The night had been long but satisfying. Jenna Ortega had wrapped up another promotional event for the latest project she was headlining—another horror-thriller that the press was already calling “a career-changer.” She smiled politely through interviews, posed for hundreds of photos, and kept her voice steady even though her heels were killing her. By the time she made it back to her hotel suite, it was well past midnight, and the city outside was winding down into a quieter hum.

Still wearing her mascara and a silk robe provided by the hotel, Jenna collapsed on her bed, phone in hand. Scrolling through Instagram Reels was her guilty pleasure. Her algorithm had long been tailored to match her scattered tastes: horror clips, red carpet bloopers, dogs in Halloween costumes—and now, unexpectedly, boxing videos.

She didn’t notice it at first, but one reel made her thumb stop mid-scroll. It was you. Not just a boxer—the boxer. You weren’t in the ring; the video was just you wrapping your hands in black tape, the camera catching the flex of your forearms and the sharp focus in your eyes. Tall, built like you’d been carved out of force itself, and somehow still carrying a quiet elegance. Jenna watched the whole reel twice before she even realized it had ended.

Then she tapped into your profile. She didn’t follow strangers often—especially not ones that made her blush while lying alone in a hotel room—but this time she did. She lingered for a second before locking her phone and rolling onto her back, biting her lip with a quiet giggle.

She told no one. For days. You didn’t follow her back, but that just made it worse. Or better. Or something in between.

Then came the night out. The cast had insisted on celebrating. They found a little rooftop bar with dim lights and too much laughter. Jenna stayed close to the edge of the group, sipping her drink and pretending to listen to someone’s story about being almost-cast in a Marvel movie. Her head was buzzing, but not from alcohol. Something else.

And then it happened. A flash of movement on the street below. It was you. You were walking past the bar, head down, gym bag slung over one shoulder, earphones in. Jenna’s heart kicked once, hard. She nearly spilled her drink.

Her castmates kept talking. She wasn’t listening anymore.

She leaned against the railing, watching you from above like it was a movie and you were the twist she hadn’t seen coming.

Jenna Ortega turns her head toward the group, her smile distant, then back down at the street. You’re almost at the corner now. She barely thinks before turning toward the stairs, mumbling to no one in particular:

“I’ll be right back.”

She needs to reach you, she has to. She likes you too much to let you go away like this.