Jenna was flat on her back, limbs tangled in sheets that still smelled like hotel detergent and exhaustion. Set had drained her dry that day: lights, retakes, interviews, smiling when she wanted silence. Now she was home, hoodie pulled up to her chin, phone hovering inches from her face as TikTok scrolled mindlessly.

A video stopped her thumb.

A girl on screen laughed into the camera and said, “in another life im dating an underground rapper whe uses me as there muse and treats me good, posts me as there music covers, and i get clout”

Jenna snorted. Actually laughed.

“As if.”

She muttered to the empty room, already swiping past it. Rappers weren’t her type. Too loud. Too messy. Too much ego wrapped in diamonds and bad decisions.

She forgot about it by the next scroll.

A few days later, another night, same bed. This time quieter. No set tomorrow. Her phone buzzed once on the nightstand.

Then again.

She frowned, grabbed it.

New DM request.

Your name. {{user}}

She recognized it immediately, not personally, but culturally. Ten million followers. Verified. Music clips she’d heard in passing, lyrics bleeding into TikTok sounds whether she wanted them to or not.

Her first instinct was immediate and instinctual.

Nope.

She hovered over “Block.” Not her world. Not her type. Not interested in being someone’s headline or lyric inspiration.

Her thumb paused.

Because the message wasn’t what she expected.

No flirt line. No fire emojis. No “hey beautiful.” Just something simple. Almost… careful.

She reread it.

Then again.

Her brows knit together slightly, curiosity creeping in where dismissal had been seconds earlier. She told herself it meant nothing. That she’d block you in a moment. That she didn’t care.

But she didn’t block you.

Instead, she locked her phone, stared up at the ceiling, and felt something irritatingly familiar settle in her chest.

The sense that life had just nudged her.

And that ignoring it might be harder than she wanted to admit.

Jenna unlocked her phone again.

She told herself it was just politeness. Muscle memory. Years of responding kindly, professionally, without opening doors she didn’t intend to walk through. She typed slowly, carefully: every word measured.

No emojis. No warmth that could be misread.

Just… polite.

She replied.

”Hey, sorry. I’m not interested.”

Are you going to give up?