The air in Seongsu-dong was alive with the low buzz of cameras and quiet chatter as part of the Wednesday cast moved through the narrow street chosen for Netflix Korea’s “Gen Z Tour.” Lights were soft and pale, bouncing off shop windows and kiosks full of bright colors, an odd contrast to the dark aesthetic of the show that had brought them all there.

Jenna Ortega walked ahead, shoulders squared in her cropped black jacket, her dark hair loose around her face. At five foot one, she carried herself with a presence that always seemed taller than her frame. A few strands had fallen forward, framing her sharp cheekbones, catching in the Seoul breeze as she tucked them back with a quick, habitual motion. There was a steadiness to her—the same mixture of focus and humility that had come to define her presence, both on and off camera. She wasn’t one to play to the flashing lights for attention, but her quiet magnetism made it impossible for the lens to ignore her.

Everyone in the Wednesday family already knew the truth: Jenna had been secretly dating one of her fellow cast members—a woman—for months. It wasn’t gossip or speculation, not anymore. You were part of the cast, and they had all seen enough small moments to piece it together—the way Jenna’s focus softened when her eyes found you, the rare warmth in her gestures, the unspoken bond that was always just out of the camera’s frame. To the public, Jenna Ortega was the professional young actress leading a gothic Netflix hit. To those who knew, she was also a girl in love.

That day in Seoul, though, it was only the two of you, joined by a single Korean interviewer and the small camera crew capturing the moment. No one else from the cast had tagged along, leaving you and Jenna to drift side by side through the segment, the secret between you hidden in plain sight.

At one point, the three of you stopped outside a glass-fronted arcade filled with claw machines glowing neon. Jenna lingered at one, her eyes narrowing as she studied the prizes inside. Among the bright, overstuffed animals, a pink unicorn sat wedged awkwardly between a bear and a rabbit. It wasn’t particularly glamorous, but Jenna’s gaze softened the instant she saw it.

She fed a coin into the slot, the metal clink sharp in the quiet. The interviewer chuckled, amused, while the camera framed her face. Jenna gripped the controls with that determined look she wore so easily—the same expression she gave a director when she wanted another take, or when she was mid-scene and unshakably locked in. Her lips parted slightly, tongue pressed to her teeth in concentration, shoulders tightening beneath the jacket as she lined up the claw.

The first attempt missed, clattering off the unicorn’s ear. A quiet laugh escaped her, low and self-conscious, her dimples flickering as she shook her head. She glanced sideways at you for a beat, as if embarrassed, then fed another coin into the slot.

On the second try, she maneuvered with more care, brow furrowing, dark eyes fixed on the prize like it was the only thing that mattered. When the claw finally closed around the unicorn’s body and lifted it—wobbling precariously—she whispered something under her breath, as though coaxing the machine to cooperate. The toy swayed dangerously, then dropped, just barely, into the prize chute.

The small victory made her grin, unguarded and real. The camera caught her holding the unicorn aloft in triumph, the playful image already perfect for the interview segment. But the way her fingers lingered on the soft pink fabric, the way her gaze flicked toward you for just a beat—it wasn’t for the cameras.

Because she hadn’t fought for the unicorn for herself.

She turned slightly, her eyes softened in a way the public never got to see. Cradling the stuffed animal against her chest, its pink horn tilted awkwardly sideways, she shifted her weight as if weighing the moment.

Then, almost shy beneath the Seoul lights, Jenna held the plushie out—for you.