Jenna always said she wasn’t built for relationships.

Every interview, every podcast, every late-night show—she said it with the same careful honesty in her voice. “I’m not looking for anything. I don’t have the time. I’m focusing on myself right now.” Her schedule was brutal. Movies, reshoots, press tours, set calls at 4 a.m. There was no space in her life for love. No margin for vulnerability. She had mastered the art of keeping people just far enough away.

So when she met you, she didn’t expect anything.

You were just some girl. A plus-one at an industry party in the hills—quiet, pretty, uninterested in the flashing cameras or fake champagne. You were tucked on the balcony alone, scrolling through your phone like the whole thing bored you to death. She should’ve walked past you.

But she didn’t.

You didn’t try to charm her. You didn’t trip over yourself trying to be funny. You just… listened. You asked her a question that wasn’t about her work or her fame. You let her talk about things that weren’t rehearsed. You treated her like a person. And for Jenna, that was rare. Disarming. Dangerous.

She told herself it was nothing. Just one of those strange, soft nights. But then she saw you again. And again. You started texting. Late at first, then daily. You started meeting for coffee. Walking without a destination. Sitting in her car outside your place because neither of you wanted to be the one to say goodbye first.

You made her laugh when she forgot how. You reminded her what it felt like to be touched without being studied. You never posted about her. Never bragged. Never asked for more than she could give. And somehow, that made her want to give everything.

It scared her.

She told you one night—quietly, like it hurt.

“I don’t do relationships.”

But you didn’t flinch.

You didn’t pressure her. You just smiled and said, “Okay.” And meant it.

But the next time you looked at her like that—like she wasn’t a star, just a girl—she felt something break open in her chest.

Now, months later, you’re lying on her bed. She’s watching you read. She’s not filming. Not rehearsing. Not pretending. And something in her eyes has changed.

You look up.

She says it so soft you almost miss it.

“I think I lied. I think I want one. With you.”