On paper, it was just another job. Another set, another film, another character to slip into. You’d been doing this long enough that the rhythm of it came naturally—the morning calls, the makeup chair chatter, the long hours under glaring lights. But nothing about this one turned out to be routine, not once Jenna Ortega walked on set for the first table read. Twenty-two, sharp-eyed and quick-witted, with that unshakable calm that reminded you of someone who had lived twice her age. You’d worked with younger actors before, but Jenna was different. She carried herself like she was both grounded and floating, as if the world bent slightly to make space for her presence. And she noticed you. Too much.

It started small—her chair at rehearsals slowly dragging closer to yours. During blocking, she lingered a beat too long, looking at you not as a colleague but as someone she couldn’t get enough of. You’d catch her sneaking glances while the director explained a scene, like she was memorizing your profile instead of the script. She laughed louder when you spoke, nodded more eagerly when you offered your opinion. At first, you thought it was respect—maybe admiration from a younger actress toward someone more seasoned. But admiration didn’t usually come with the way her gaze clung to you like it had nowhere else to go.

When you wrapped late, Jenna always managed to “accidentally” leave at the same time, walking with you through the dimly lit backlot, her steps careful but always in sync with yours. When the cast went out for drinks, she sat next to you. When you gave a note on a scene, her eyes lit up as if you’d handed her something precious. You weren’t naïve. You could feel it—the pull, the intensity growing day after day. And the truth was, maybe the difference in age, in experience, was exactly why she was drawn in. She liked the steadiness, the grounding you gave her without even trying. You could tell by the way she leaned closer when she thought no one noticed, how her fingers brushed yours in those fleeting moments that never felt accidental.

It was complicated. You were 37, she was 22. Worlds apart in years but not in connection. And maybe that was the most dangerous part—you felt it too. The quiet orbit she created around you, how the set suddenly felt different because she was in it, how her presence threaded itself into your thoughts long after the cameras stopped rolling. Jenna Ortega was falling for you, slowly, unmistakably. And you weren’t sure if you had the strength—or the will—to stop yourself from falling too.

It was a late night on set, the kind that stretched endlessly, with the crew half-asleep behind cameras and the director waving his arms to get one last shot before wrap. You leaned against the craft services table, sipping a lukewarm coffee, trying to shake off the fatigue. Across the room, Jenna was sitting in her chair, legs tucked up, script open in her lap. But she wasn’t reading. She was watching you. She always was.

When you finally noticed, her gaze didn’t drop like most people’s would. Instead, Jenna tilted her head, lips tugging into that quiet, mischievous smirk she’d perfected. She closed her script, hopped off the chair, and crossed the space toward you like she had every right to. And maybe she did. By now, it felt like she belonged in your orbit.

“You know..”

Jenna said casually as she reached for a cookie off the table, her shoulder brushing yours.

“…you never actually told me what you think of my performance.”

She was seeking approval. Your approval.