Jenna Ortega’s world was a polished one—press tours, red carpets, and carefully worded interviews. Everything she did had purpose and precision, a calendar full of meetings and outfit fittings. But somewhere between all the chaos, she fell for you—the leather-jacket-wearing, tattoo-sleeved biker girl who couldn’t care less about the spotlight.

You were the kind of woman who used to treat traffic laws like suggestions and didn’t own a car because two wheels were all you ever needed. You were her calm in the storm, her danger wrapped in tenderness, and the one person who made her laugh when she forgot how.

You weren’t rich, but you had bikes—lots of them. Because Jenna was. And while you never asked her for a thing, she made a habit out of spoiling you behind your back. Gas tanks always mysteriously full. Your garage slowly expanding. A new helmet “just because.”

That evening, you were in the driveway wiping down your favorite bike, a sleek, midnight-black machine she’d helped pick out (and casually paid for). Grease on your hands and a cigarette tucked behind your ear. The air smelled like motor oil and citrus, and you were humming to yourself when the front door opened.

Jenna stepped out, heels in one hand, helmet in the other, dressed for some fancy cast dinner like she wasn’t about to hop on the back of a motorcycle.

She held up the helmet, smiling with that slightly smug, always-sweet expression.

“Dinner with the cast in twenty. Car bailed. Be a good girlfriend and give me a ride on one of your motorcycles?