#kaces masterlist

Wednesday Addams x Reader

A/N: Howdy folks! This one leans more toward intellectual/psychological horror, a slow-burning unraveling for Wednesday. ALSO! There’s a minor spoiler (name mentioned and ability drop!) from Season 2, so please be wary before you continue.

Summary: When Wednesday’s typewriter begins producing words on its own, she’s convinced it’s a malfunction until the ink starts responding to her honesty. Each lie makes the words vanish; each truth cuts deeper. As Y/N stays by her side, the line between author and confession blurs, and something inside the machine begins to write what Wednesday refuses to say aloud.

Word Count: 5.2k

Rain tapped the window like an impatient visitor, the kind that wouldn’t take a hint. Enid hummed over the sound, sprawled across her bed with one leg in the air, painting her nails an unholy shade of pumpkin orange.

I was sitting at the end of her bed, flipping idly through a book, though I wasn’t really reading. Across the room, Wednesday Addams sat at her desk — perfectly still, perfectly silent — staring at her typewriter.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual. She was always quiet, always composed. But Enid and I knew her well enough to read the subtle fractures: the tighter fold of her arms, the set of her jaw, the faintest exhale that didn’t quite qualify as a sigh.

She was frustrated. Which, for Wednesday, was the emotional equivalent of a full-scale tantrum.

Enid leaned toward me, voice a stage whisper. “She’s grumbling again.”

I glanced up from my book. “She hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.”

“Exactly,” Enid said. “That’s how she grumbles.”

Without turning around, Wednesday spoke calmly and precisely. “If you intend to narrate me, at least be accurate. I’m contemplating the futility of language.”

Enid grinned. “So… writer’s block?”

“I don’t experience blockages,” she said flatly. “I experience temporary disgust with my surroundings.”

I bit back a smile. “So yes. Writer’s block.”

Her head turned slightly, eyes landing on me like a scalpel finding skin. “Your commentary is noted.”

Lightning flashed, bleaching the room white for a heartbeat. When the afterimage faded, the air seemed heavier.

Then came the sound: click.

All three of us looked toward the desk.

Arms folded, Wednesday watched as the typewriter pressed a single key on its own. One letter. Then another.

The carriage shifted with mechanical precision, and a complete sentence took shape across the page.

The first body was found beneath the gargoyle spire.

Enid blinked. “Okay. Creepy. But also… kind of on-brand?”

“I didn’t type that,” Wednesday said. Her voice didn’t change, but something in the air around her did.

The smell reached us a moment later — faint, chemical, almost sweet. Formaldehyde.

Enid wrinkled her nose. “Gross. Please tell me that’s not a new candle.”

Wednesday rose from her chair, stepping closer to the page. Her expression didn’t shift, but her tone sharpened like the edge of a blade.

“It appears my story has acquired initiative.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

She glanced at me, eyes dark and unreadable. “I’ll decide once it stops writing.”

The typewriter stayed still.

For the moment.

The typewriter clicked again before either of us spoke.

Another line formed beneath the first, the metal arms moving slowly and certainly.

The author denies her creation. The creation disagrees.

Enid’s nervous laugh faltered halfway through. “Okay… that’s unsettling. Maybe we—uh—open a window?”

Wednesday stared at the sentence, unblinking. Her fingers brushed the edge of the page, stopping just before the ink.

“The grammar is impeccable,” she said finally. “A relief. I despise being haunted by incompetence.”

Enid edged toward the door. “And that’s my cue to find snacks. Possibly a priest.” She shot me a grin that carried more nerve than comfort. “Don’t let her elope with it while I’m gone.”

Then she was gone, her perfume trailing out the door.

The silence she left behind felt almost deliberate.

Wednesday didn’t move for a long time. Then, quietly:

“It writes when unprovoked.”

I stepped closer. “Do you think it’s cursed?”

“Curses are theatrical,” she said. “This is… precise.”

Another heartbeat.

Then, almost to herself:

“If it is sentient, it chose poorly.”

The lightning outside flashed again, pale light sliding over her face. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes were alive, sharp, focused, dangerous in their calm.

That was the moment I realized she wasn’t afraid of the typewriter at all.

She was interested.

When the door closed behind Enid, the room felt like a lung that had stopped exhaling. The only sounds left were the soft tick of the radiator and the steady hum of the rain.

Wednesday stood over the desk, eyes on the typewriter as if it were breathing. Then, without a word, she crossed to her dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out—a taser.

I straightened on instinct. “Um. Why did you pull that out?”

She flicked the switch; a thin blue arc snapped between the prongs, lighting her face for half a second.

“To ensure there isn’t a stalking nuisance lurking unseen,” she said. Her tone was perfectly calm, as though this were a routine housekeeping task.

It took me a moment to realize what she meant.

“Agnes,” I blurted, turning toward the empty corners of the room. “If you’re here, you might wanna speak up before she—”

Wednesday squeezed the trigger. The spark hissed through the air near the desk; the smell of ozone bloomed instantly. Nothing. No movement. No startled, invisible girl shouting back.

She lowered the taser. “Not Agnes,” she said, her voice level but unmistakably disappointed. “Unfortunate. I was curious how invisible flesh would conduct electricity.”

I tried to steady my voice. “You could’ve just… asked?”

“I did,” she replied. “The air failed to answer.”

She turned back to the typewriter, every motion deliberate. She adjusted the carriage, tapped a key, then another, listening to the hollow clicks like a doctor checking a pulse.

“The ribbon is inert,” she murmured. “Yet it produces script. Either we are witnessing a new form of kinetic resonance, or—”

“Or it’s haunted,” I said.

She glanced at me briefly. “How refreshingly unimaginative.”

There was no smile, no reaction at all—only a stillness that meant she’d found something worth dissecting, her thoughts closing in with the patience of a vulture waiting for decay.

I took a small step closer. “How’s the book going?” I asked, hoping to draw her back for just a second.

She didn’t look up. “It was going well until my prose began exhibiting autonomy.” Her fingers brushed the keys again, precise, reverent. “Now it’s infinitely more interesting.”

I watched her work, the tiny crackle of static still hanging in the air between us. The smell of ozone mixed with that faint chemical tang from before—formaldehyde and thunder.

She leaned closer to the page. “If it intends communication, it will respond to stimulus.”

“And if it doesn’t?” I asked.

“Then I’ll give it one.”

She lifted the taser again, expression unreadable, and pressed the crackling light to the edge of the typewriter.

The machine jerked once, then erupted in a frenzy of clacks before dying back into stillness.

The ink on the page rippled—dark, wet, and pulsing, as if it were breathing. It quivered once more, then slowly settled into a single new word.

LISTEN

The word LISTEN shone wet under the lamp.

Wednesday studied it for a long moment before speaking. “It’s concise,” she said at last. “Too direct to be random.”

I nodded. “It’s… you. Short sentences. Ominous. A little rude.”

Her eyebrow twitched—approval or irritation, I couldn’t tell. “Then perhaps it’s a mirror. My prose reflected through mechanical decay.”

That sounded like her, so I nodded again, mostly to fill the quiet.

She turned the carriage back and pressed a key. Nothing. Another. Still nothing. Her movements were precise and analytical, as if she were performing surgery instead of typing.

“The ribbon is dry,” she murmured. “Yet ink continues to manifest. A paradox.”

She adjusted the arm with practiced precision, the faint smell of oil and ozone mingling in the air. I stepped closer, curiosity winning over good sense. The scent of formaldehyde still lingered faintly beneath the rain-soaked air.

I bent to read the line more closely.

The machine clicked.

A fresh word appeared beneath my breath on the page.

STAY.

I stepped back immediately. “Uh—Wednesday?”

She didn’t look up. “Observation?”

“It—It wrote something new. When I got close.”

That made her pause. She inspected the page again, expression flat but eyes brightening the way they did when she smelled a mystery. “Repeat the movement.”

I hesitated, then leaned in again. Nothing.

She frowned slightly. “Proximity alone isn’t sufficient.”

“Maybe it’s the vibration from our voices,” I offered.

She considered that. “Possible. Though I prefer a more elegant explanation.”

At the word elegant, the typewriter jerked once—keys rattling in place.

We both froze.

A new phrase etched itself slowly across the page.

SHE AGREES.

A chill ran through me. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” Her tone was measured, almost soft. “It is responsive. Perhaps reactive to shared cognition.”

“In English?”

“It echoes consensus,” she said. “Like an extension of collective thought.”

“So it’s reading us?”

“Or reflecting us.”

She looked almost pleased. Then, with a kind of deliberate grace, she extended one pale hand toward the shadows. “Thing.”

From under her desk, a familiar shape skittered out—the disembodied hand snapping once in greeting before perching beside the typewriter.

Wednesday didn’t blink. “You will assist with documentation.”

Thing flexed his fingers in a silent thumbs-up.

She turned to me next, and this time her tone was unmistakably firm. “I require absolute focus. Any variables—particularly emotional ones—will corrupt the data.”

“Emotional ones?” I repeated.

Her eyes met mine, steady as ever. “Yes. You’re unpredictable.”

That one stung more than I wanted it to. “So… you’re kicking me out.”

“Temporarily,” she said. “If it does anything irrational, I prefer it to do so in my presence alone.”

I stared at her, at the page, at the faint curl of smoke rising where the last line of ink was drying.

“Just—don’t obsess too long,” I said. “Whatever this is, it’s already listening.”

“I’m counting on that,” she replied.

The sound of the typewriter followed me to the door—crisp, deliberate—as if it were answering her back.

By the third day, Enid had given up trying to save her.

Wednesday hadn’t left her desk once except to refill her tea. The curtains stayed half-drawn, and the air smelled faintly of metal and ozone. Every hour or so, the typewriter would stutter—one key striking, pausing, then nothing like it was mocking her.

Enid slumped against the doorway when I walked in. “Thank God. Maybe you can talk her out of this. She hasn’t blinked since Tuesday.”

“She blinks,” I said.

“Not that I’ve seen.” Enid rolled her eyes. “Look, we’ve got Professor Orloff’s science and herbology exam tomorrow. I was hoping we could study here so she’s forced to exist in human company for once.”

“Sure,” I said, and followed her in.

Wednesday didn’t acknowledge me at first. The desk lamp threw her face into half shadow, half pale intensity. 

Her hands hovered above the keys, deliberate and still.

“You’re back,” she said finally, as if she’d been expecting me.

“I live dangerously,” I answered, setting my notes on Enid’s bed.

Enid pulled her study binder open with a dramatic sigh. “She’s been at this for three days. Thing tried helping, and she scared him off with a taser.”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “He was uncooperative.”

“You tried to shock him,” Enid said.

Wednesday’s tone was almost bored. “Science requires replication.”

Enid turned to me, mouthing the word ‘help’.

I crossed the room slowly. “Any progress?”

Her eyes flicked to me, cold glass catching light. “It produces text only under specific conditions. I haven’t isolated them yet.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve tried temperature, vibration, and static interference. None yields consistent results.”

“Maybe it’s just tired,” I said.

She didn’t blink. Machines don’t tire. People do.”

Enid muttered, “Yeah, and you’re next.” She scooped up her books, huffing. “I’m going to the common room before she starts talking to it again. You two… bond. Or whatever this is.”

The door clicked behind her.

“Enid’s capacity for patience is microscopic,” Wednesday said.

“Most people’s is,” I replied.

She ignored that, already turning back to the machine. Her fingertips brushed the keys like she was coaxing a heartbeat. “It responds sporadically. As though testing its own limits.”

I moved closer despite myself, drawn in by the same curiosity that had trapped her. The last sheet of paper was filled with disconnected fragments—half sentences, stray words: truth, listen, mirror.

“You’re still using the same ink?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Changing variables mid-experiment is sloppy.”

The carriage twitched at the sound of her voice, then stilled again.

I swallowed. “Maybe it likes attention.”

She didn’t answer. Her hands rested lightly on the keys, motionless. For a moment, the only faint tick of the lamp’s filament cooling, and then—soft, deliberate—the typewriter pressed a single key.

WELCOME BACK.

My breath caught. “You didn’t—”

“No.” She leaned closer. “It recognizes stimuli. Perhaps conversational cues.”

“Or people,” I said quietly.

That earned me a look. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

The lamp hummed faintly. I could feel the static in the air, a pressure just under my skin. She reached for her notebook, scribbling notes in her exacting script.

“Environmental conditions: unchanged. Variables: presence of others. Result: active response,” she murmured.

She didn’t glance up when she added, “You may stay, if you can remain silent.”

I nodded, pretending to focus on Orloff’s study guide while my eyes kept drifting back to her—the way the light gilded the curve of her jaw, the faint smear of ink on her fingers.

The machine didn’t move again, but I could have sworn it was waiting.

Wednesday reached for a fresh sheet of paper, sliding it in with that small, precise motion of hers. “If it insists on communication,” she said, “then we’ll establish the parameters.”

“Parameters,” I repeated. “For what—ghost etiquette?”

“For dialogue.”

Her tone was clinical, but her hands trembled once as she positioned the page. She placed her fingertips on the keys. Nothing happened.

“Perhaps it requires stimulus,” she murmured.

“Like what?”

Her eyes flicked toward me. “Conversation. Energy. Something volatile.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s comforting.”

She ignored me, typing a line herself.

I am Wednesday Addams. State your purpose.

The machine hesitated, then answered with its own metallic clack.

TO RECORD.

Wednesday leaned back slightly. “Predictable.”

“Predictable?” I said. “It’s talking to you.”

“Which means it’s measurable.”

She typed again. Record what?

The response came faster this time.

TRUTH.

Something cold threaded through my chest. I glanced at her, waiting for a reaction.

None. Just that, still, unbothered calm. “Define ‘truth,’” she said aloud, half to herself. “Objective? Emotional?”

She tried another sentence: Define truth.

Nothing.

Then she wrote, “I despise Orloff’s tests.”

The typewriter hummed softly—an almost mechanical purr—and words spilled clean across the page, sharp and wet.

TRUE.

She stared at it for a long moment. “So it differentiates accuracy from falsehood.”

I took a step closer before realizing it, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. “That’s… a weird thing to be proud of.”

She didn’t move away. “Observation is never pride. It’s clarity.”

Then she wrote another line. I detest company.

The machine paused.

The ink spread too wide this time, bleeding at the edges, the word FALSE blotting across the line like a bruise.

She went very still.

I swallowed. “Okay, that’s—”

“It’s malfunctioning,” she said, too quickly. “Human sentimentality has no bearing on data.”

But the word FALSE stayed there, glistening.

And when I leaned a little closer, the machine gave a soft click, as if in acknowledgment. The smell of formaldehyde rose again—stronger now, sweet and wrong.

Wednesday’s hand hovered just above the keys. “Curious,” she murmured. “It only reacts when you’re near.”

I took a step back. “That can’t mean anything.”

Her gaze shifted, cool and sharp. “Everything means something.”

She didn’t say it, but I could see the thought forming behind her eyes—the idea that this wasn’t just a mystery anymore. It was a challenge.

And Wednesday Addams never left a challenge unsolved. 

By the following evening, even the air in the dorm seemed to know better than to breathe too loudly around her.

Wednesday had been writing for hours—small, methodical bursts of sentences that would appear, vanish, then return in new formations like the typewriter itself was grading her honesty. I’d lost track of how many pages she’d ruined. Each failure was folded, labeled, and filed in a growing pile marked ‘Data Unreliable’.

She typed again: I enjoy group activities.

The ink appeared, glistened, and then… vanished.

Gone. Erased as if the machine had refused to dignify the sentence.

Her jaw tightened. “It rejects falsehoods,” she said. “Insubordination from an object. How novel.”

I leaned against Enid’s desk, pretending not to stare. “You sound offended.”

“I am,” she said, voice even. “Apparently, my own creation considers itself the arbiter of truth.”

She turned back to the typewriter, fingertips hovering above the keys without pressing. “And now,” she added, almost to herself, “it’s decided to alter its data again. Every line, every word—shifting as though rewriting its own conclusions. It seems my control was a brief illusion.”

“Meaning?” I asked quietly.

“Meaning,” she said, “I’m going nowhere until I understand it. The results have become... inclusive. Variables no longer isolate, and every outcome contradicts the last.” Her tone didn’t rise, but the words had an edge—an irritation that felt like fear wearing a lab coat.

I swallowed, unsure if she was talking to me or to the machine. “So, it’s winning.”

“For now,” she murmured. “But I’ve never been fond of losing.”

She tried again: I dislike control.

The keys struck, then the word dissolved before the second syllable was complete.

Wednesday’s pulse fluttered visibly at her throat, quick and uneven. She said nothing—just reached for her pen as if writing could force her body back into order.

“You’re shaking,” I said quietly.

“Psychosomatic inconvenience,” she corrected, never looking up.

“Or you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“That’s an opinion. I deal only in results.”

She wrote again, faster now, her irritation disguised as composure:

I find failure stimulating.

Nothing.

I am unaffected by Y/N’s presence.

The letters appeared—and then melted away like frost under sunlight.

I didn’t breathe.

Her hand lingered above the keys, trembling just once. “Fascinating,” she murmured, voice too calm. “It appears to be malfunctioning.”

“Or it’s calling you out,” I said before I could stop myself.

Her eyes lifted to me, sharp as the edge of a scalpel. “It’s a machine, not a confessional.”

“Then why does it care when you lie?”

She didn’t answer. For a long moment, she just stared at the blank sheet, the faint sheen of ink that wasn’t there anymore.

Finally, she sat back, expression unreadable. “The ink favors truth,” she said. “And I, unfortunately, have very little of it to spare.”

I tried not to smile. “That’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night.”

Wednesday’s gaze returned to the typewriter. “Then perhaps it will reward me for it.”

The carriage clicked once. A new word appeared, crisp and dark.

ALWAYS.

And this time, the ink didn’t fade.

By midnight, the dorm was silent except for the brittle clack of keys.

No ink. No words. Just that hollow rhythm—plastic and metal grinding against air.

Wednesday didn’t look away from the page. She hadn’t slept. Her tea had gone cold hours ago.

I watched her hands move, each motion smaller, tighter, until even her breathing seemed to follow the pattern of the useless typing.

“The mechanism has failed,” she said at last. “Or it’s punishing negligence.”

I took a step closer. “Maybe it’s finished.”

She shook her head once. “Truth doesn’t finish. It withdraws.”

She pressed another key. The sound was dry, brittle. I could feel it in my teeth.

Then—silence.

I reached out before I could stop myself, resting my hand over hers. Her fingers were cold, stiff from hours of tension. That’s enough, Wednesday.”

She didn’t pull away, but her voice was low and steady. “It isn’t. It refuses to speak until I—”

The typewriter cut her off with a sudden shudder. The carriage twitched, then the keys struck on their own, faster than they ever had before. Black liquid bled from the ribbon well, spilling over her hands, staining both of us.

The words formed slowly, deliberate as a heartbeat:

You are my ending.

Wednesday froze. The room seemed to shrink around us. I could hear my own pulse over the rain outside.

She stared at the page for a long, unbearable moment—then ripped it in half, black drops spattering the desk.

“It’s manipulation,” she whispered. “Emotional suggestion. Nothing more.”

But the ink didn’t vanish. It slid down the torn edge, dripping onto the floor, thick and slow as blood.

She was trembling when she said, almost to herself, “This is absurd. Machines don’t confess.”

I swallowed hard. “Maybe they only finish the sentences we’re too afraid to start.”

Her eyes met mine then, all the cold precision gone—only the raw ache left behind.

For once, she didn’t argue.

The sound of tearing paper still echoed when the last piece of it fell from her hand. The halves lay across the desk like a broken pulse—black ink pooling along the fibers, refusing to dry.

She didn’t move for a long time. Her breathing was sharp but shallow, the way it gets when she’s trying to calculate her next words carefully.

I reached for a towel. “Wednesday—”

“Don’t,” she said, her voice steady but thin. “It’s reacting to contact. Every movement distorts the data.”

“You’re data is all over the floor,” I muttered.

She ignored me. She was watching the keys, eyes dark and heavy with sleepless calculation. “It wanted truth,” she said, almost to herself. “It demanded it. Yet when I comply, it consumes me instead.”

“That’s not compliance,” I said quietly. “That’s exhaustion.”

Her fingers flexed, blackened by ink that looked too much like bruises. She pressed one hand to the keys, testing the metal as if feeling for a pulse.

“It doesn’t respond anymore,” she said.

“Maybe it’s waiting.”

“For what?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

The silence between us felt like a confession that neither of us had earned the right to speak.

Then—click.

Both of us froze. The typewriter shifted, its carriage sliding slowly to the right, the sound deliberate, almost hesitant.

Wednesday’s hand stayed on the keys, unmoving. The words appeared beneath her fingers:

THEY KNOW.

My chest tightened.

“I didn’t type that.” Her tone was flat, but there was something under it now.

The ink bled more. Another word began to form beneath it, each stroke jagged and uneven:

TELL THEM.

Wednesday’s breath hitched — just barely. She stared at the page like it had committed treason.

“Tell me what?” I asked, too softly.

She didn’t look up. “It’s imitating. Repetition of phrases overheard. That’s all.”

But she was lying, and we both knew it.

The typewriter did too.

The following line stamped itself violently across the page, nearly tearing through the paper:

LIAR.

Wednesday’s composure cracked for a single second — just long enough for me to see it. Her hand hovered over the line, trembling faintly, her pulse erratic in her throat.

“Your heart,” I said. “It’s racing again.”

“Psychosomatic inconvenience,” she murmured, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

I wanted to reach for her, but she drew herself up like a blade, armor snapping back into place. “It’s attempting emotional manipulation,” she said. “It wants me to confess.”

“To what?”

She finally looked at me then, and the air between us shifted — charged, close, dangerous.

“Something it believes is true.”

Her voice was calm, but her eyes said something else entirely. Something raw.

The typewriter hummed, faint and alive, as though listening.

The typewriter sat between us like a living thing. The air was dense—metal, rain, and something faintly sweet, like decay pretending to be perfume.

Then, without a sound from Wednesday, the keys began to move.

Slow at first. Then steady.

Each strike deliberate, measured—her rhythm, her cadence, her exact punctuation.

I find their presence intolerably distracting.

Their laughter interferes with my concentration.

Their absence is worse.

The room held its breath.

Wednesday didn’t move. Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides, the ink still drying on her fingers.

“Wednesday,” I whispered, “that’s—”

“Coincidence,” she cut in. “It’s pattern recognition. Language models imitate.”

The machine disagreed. Another line appeared, faster now:

They disrupt my order, yet I am drawn to the chaos.

I detest it.

I crave it.

She finally reached for the paper, but the typewriter struck again before she could touch it—metal clacking like a heartbeat against the wood.

I love them.

Silence.

The words sat there, stark and perfect, her phrasing to the letter. Not a whisper too sentimental, not a breath out of character. It sounded exactly like her—precise, reluctant, damningly sincere.

I swallowed hard. “Is it true?”

She didn’t answer. Her jaw worked once, a tremor of conflict barely visible.

“Wednesday,” I said again, stepping closer. “Look at me.”

Her eyes lifted—dark, furious, frightened.

“It’s a fabrication,” she said. “An algorithmic coincidence.”

“Say it’s not true,” I pressed.

Her silence was louder than any confession.

I stepped closer, slow enough for her to notice but not retreat. The space between us thinned, and for once, she didn’t fill it with words.

Her ink-stained hand stayed clenched at her side, knuckles white against the dark smear of her skin. I reached for it—carefully, like testing static—and the moment my fingers brushed hers, she flinched.

Just a flicker. A tremor that shouldn’t have been there.

Her pulse gave her away before she could still it.

“You can’t hide behind data anymore,” I said softly. “The machine doesn’t lie. It’s only saying what you won’t.”

Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow. “You presume much.”

“I’m just reading what it wrote.”

The typewriter clattered once more, one final line etching itself in thick, wet black:

Why fight what they already know?

Her gaze flicked to the words, then to me. The fight in her face faltered—just for a second, but it was enough.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it. “Yes,” she said. “It’s true.”

The typewriter went still.

The ink didn’t fade this time. It sank into the page like a seal.

For a long time, neither of us moved.

The air was thick with ink, the bite of formaldehyde softening until it was only memory. The quiet that followed didn’t feel empty—just waiting.

Wednesday stood at the desk, posture rigid, composure fraying at the edges. Torn paper and ink pooled across the floor like something that refused to dry.

I reached for her wrist, the one still dark with ink. She didn’t move, didn’t resist. Instead, she turned her palm over and pressed her cold, ink-slick fingers into mine.

The stain bled across my skin, smudging the difference between us.

She didn’t try to take the words back. She didn’t apologize. She simply… stopped.

“You should go,” she said at last, voice low, deliberate.

“No,” I said.

That single word pulled her gaze to me.

“I’m not leaving you to dissect it alone,” I added. “You’d just turn it into another experiment.”

Her mouth twitched—an aborted retort, or maybe a thank you she’d never learned how to say.

I shifted toward the bed, guiding her with me. Her hand was still in mine, our fingers loosely interlaced—ink staining the creases between them.

We stopped at the edge of the mattress, neither speaking. The room felt suspended, waiting.

When I sat, she followed, slow and deliberate. Our hands stayed joined, knuckles brushing as if to confirm we were both still there. The ink was cold against my skin, but her grip was

The typewriter had gone still, but the words remained—stark, unyielding in the lamplight: Why fight what they already know?

For the first time in days, she didn’t pay it any mind.

Hours passed that way—no questions, no notes, no theories. Just silence thick enough to breathe in.

In time, even her precision unraveled; the perfect angles of her posture gave way to something gentler. When I looked again, her eyes were closed.

The machine stayed quiet.

That was the night she finally let it rest.

Three days passed before Enid coaxed us both back into the room under the pretense of “closure.”

“Think of it like exposure therapy,” she’d said, balancing a cup of cocoa in one hand and a phone in the other. “You can’t keep avoiding it forever.”

When we stepped inside, the typewriter was exactly where we’d left it. The page is still in place. But the ink—every word that had once burned across the paper—was gone.

Wednesday examined it silently, running one finger across the clean sheet. “Erased,” she murmured. “No residue. No moisture. Nothing.”

Enid exhaled. “Guess it’s really over.”

Wednesday’s brow furrowed, as though that idea offended her. “Endings are rarely so considerate.”

I smiled faintly. “Maybe it just got what it wanted.”

She looked at me then, a faint light flickering in her eyes—something that might have been a smile, if it had belonged to anyone else.

“Doubtful,” she said.

Still, she closed the case over the typewriter, a soft click sealing the quiet. For once, she didn’t open her notebook, didn’t reach for analysis or cause. 

And for the first time since it all began, the room felt… human again.

Three weeks later, Nevermore was unusually still that evening. The air carried the faint scent of rain and old stone from the courtyard—unwelcome softness, but tolerable.

Wednesday entered the dorm, the quiet echo of her boots cutting through the still air. Her coat—long, black, and neatly fastened—moved like a shadow at her heels.

She crossed to the corner of her bed where Y/N’s scarf hung over the metal frame, draped with theatrical carelessness. The faint trace of their perfume lingered, clinging to the wool like intent.

“Subtle as ever,” she murmured, folding it with clinical precision.

The idea of a date was still absurd to her. And yet, she was going.

She picked up the scarf, brushed away an invisible speck of dust, and checked her pocket watch. Y/N would be waiting—impatiently, no doubt, despite having insisted she “take her time.”

Wednesday slipped the watch back into her coat, the chain glinting once in the lamplight. She turned toward the door, scarf folded neatly in her hand.

But before her fingers reached the knob, she stopped.

Something tugged at her attention—the faintest sound from her desk.

A whisper of movement.

Her eyes narrowed. “Impossible,” she muttered, stepping closer.

The typewriter sat exactly where she’d left it. The cover closed, dustless, harmless.

Still, the air around it felt heavier, the way a room feels after someone’s spoken your name and vanished.

She hesitated, then lifted the cover.

A sheet of paper waited inside. Clean. Untouched. Except for the single line typed across its center—black, fresh, glistening faintly under the lamplight.

Her hand hovered above it, careful not to touch the ink.

No sound came from the keys. No tremor. No hum.

Just the faint ticking of the clock behind her.

Wednesday, read the words once. Then again.

Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes—a recognition she didn’t care to name.

The paper stayed in the typewriter. She turned off the lamp. She adjusted the scarf in her hands, folding it neatly once more before heading out the door, shutting softly behind her.

The typewriter waited a moment, still as bone.

Then, in the dark, one key pressed down.

Jenna Ortega x Writer Reader

Summary: The journal shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have seen it. But the words are inked, the confessions buried in scribbled margins. Unfinished. She turns the page. The door opens. And now, there’s no taking it back.

Word Count: 1.5k

“Okay, but hear me out—unicorns are terrifying.” You scoffed as you stirred the pasta, glancing over your shoulder at Jenna, who sat comfortably at your kitchen table, script in hand. “Unicorns?” you repeated, unimpressed. “You mean the glittery, rainbow kind?”

Jenna smirked, flipping a page. “No. Think The Thing meets The Last Unicorn—except instead of spreading magic and joy, it hunts people. Horns like spears, glowing red eyes, and it camouflages itself as a stuffed toy when it needs to hide.”

You paused, setting the wooden spoon down. “... Okay. I’m listening.” Jenna grinned, pushing the script aside to grab her water. “It’s an indie horror project. The director wants something totally absurd but terrifying.” “And they chose you?” you teased, arching a brow. Jenna took a slow sip of water, leveling you with a look. “Yes. Because I embody fear itself.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You embody five foot nothing and need a ladder to reach my top shelf.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached for her script again, flipping to a heavily annotated page.

“So, in this scene, the unicorn—”

Before she could continue, you realized you were missing ingredients. “Shit,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I forgot a few things for dinner. And we need drinks.” Jenna raised a brow. “You say that like we’re not just having pasta.” “I was gonna open a bottle of wine, if that’s alright with you, Ortega.” She smirked. “Ah. Fancy.”

You grabbed your jacket. “Bodega’s just a block away. Liquor store’s right after. Be back in fifteen.” Jenna waved a dismissive hand, already distracted by the script. “Bring me something good.”

You smirked. You had a plan for that.

Jenna spent two minutes flipping through her script, highlighting a line, trying to focus. But her eyes kept drifting back to the leather-bound journal sat just a few inches away, dark and worn, standing out against the otherwise neat surface of your kitchen table. It didn’t belong there.

And that’s what made it off. She ignored it. Then, as if possessed by something beyond her willpower, she reached for it. Just a peek.

She flipped past the first few pages—dates, random notes, the kind of scribbles people made when they were half-asleep. But then, a page caught her eye. And suddenly, breathing felt harder, and there it was. Her name. And below it, crossed-out lines, footnotes scrawled in the margins—like you had written and rewritten them too many times, unable to get them right.

Jenna’s lips parted slightly as she read. “She looks at the world like she’s memorizing it. Like every moment is something worth keeping.” A quiet exhale left her as her fingers traced the ink. The way she spoke. The way she carried herself. The way she laughed—not her polished, camera-ready chuckle, but the real one.

Below it, one line that wasn’t crossed out: “I love the way she exists.” Jenna blinked, pulse hammering. This wasn’t just writing. This was her. Her hands tightened around the journal, a war raging in her head. She should put it down. She should pretend she never saw it iInstead, she turned the page. And that’s when she saw the poem.

Short, unfinished, scribbled like you had tried to ignore it:

"If I were braver, I’d tell her." "If I were braver, I’d say it plain." "If I were braver—"

A key in the door.

Jenna’s head snapped up.

You stepped inside, a bag of groceries and a bouquet of flowers in one hand. Jenna barely noticed; your eyes flicked to the table, to the open journal in her hands, and in that moment—she saw the exact second you realized what had just happened.

A beat of silence. Then, softly— “…You read it.”

Jenna swallowed, gripping the pages a little tighter. She could lie. She could say it was an accident. She could pretend she hadn’t just read the one thing she had no business knowing, but instead, she lifted her gaze to yours. “…You wrote this for me.” And for the first time all night—

You didn’t have any words left.

Which was ironic, considering you had spent weeks—months— spilling them into that journal. Hiding them in half-sentences, crossing them out, leaving them unfinished like that would somehow make them less real. But now? Now Jenna was sitting at your kitchen table, holding your secrets in her hands.

You gripped the bag of groceries a little too tightly, your fingers flexing around the bouquet of flowers, still wrapped in plastic.

“I—”

You what? Didn’t mean for her to see? Weren’t ready? Meant to tell her after you worked up the courage with a glass of wine? None of that mattered now. Jenna’s eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unreadable. “You wrote this for me,” she said again, softer this time. Like she was still processing it herself. Your throat went dry. “Jenna—” She glanced down at the open page. Her fingers ghosted over the words again, a quiet intensity settling in her features. “…How long?” she asked. You blinked. “What?” Jenna tilted the journal slightly. “How long have you felt like this?” Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You exhaled sharply, setting the groceries down before you dropped them. “Jenna, can we—can we not do this like this?” She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. And that’s when you realized: She wasn’t going to let you dodge this. Not now. Not after everything she just read.You swallowed, fingers flexing at your sides. “…A while.”

Jenna’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

So you kept going. “A long while...” A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with something you couldn’t name. Jenna closed the journal slowly, resting her hand on top of it. And then, she stood.Your breath caught.

She stepped around the table, each movement deliberate. By the time she was standing in front of you, you had completely forgotten how to breathe. Jenna tilted her head, studying you. You had seen this look before. On set, when she was locked into character. In interviews, when she was asked something she actually cared about. That sharp focus, that quiet intensity.Only now—Now, it was entirely on you.

“You were going to tell me tonight,” she murmured. It wasn’t a question. Your gaze flickered to the bouquet of flowers on the counter, then back to her. You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah. I, uh… thought I’d have a little more control over the reveal, though.” Jenna’s lips twitched. “You should’ve hidden it better.” You huffed. “I didn’t think you’d go through my things, Ortega.” “I didn’t. It was just… there.” She hesitated, a quiet edge creeping into her voice. “Like it was meant to be found.” Your heart slammed against your ribs.

For a second, you didn’t know what to say. But then—Jenna took another step closer, and your brain completely short-circuited. Suddenly, she was standing right there, barely a breath between you, her gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips and back. And holy shit.“You’re freaking out,” she murmured, amusement creeping into her tone. “I am not—” You cleared your throat. “—freaking out.” Jenna smirked. “You’re standing completely still.” You blinked. “That’s called being normal, Jenna.” “No,” she said simply, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s called being scared.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—”

Jenna reached up, gently tugging on the front of your shirt. Not pulling, not forcing. Just holding. And suddenly, the air shifted. Your pulse roared in your ears as her thumb brushed absently against the fabric, the warmth of her hand spreading through you like wildfire. “…You don’t have to be,” she said softly. Your breath hitched. And that was it. That was all it took for every single thought in your head to vanish.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, before your doubts could catch up to you, before anything else could get in the way—You leaned in. And finally—You kissed her. Soft. Slow. Tentative at first, but then—Jenna exhaled against your lips like she had been holding back just as much as you had, and then her hands were sliding up, one curling around the back of your neck, the other gripping your shirt just a little tighter.

And holy shit.

It was so much better than you had imagined. Your journal hadn’t been able to capture this. The way she sighed against your mouth, the way her lips moved like she had been waiting for this just as long as you had, the way her body fit so perfectly against yours like she had always belonged there. By the time you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. Jenna’s eyes flickered open slowly, dazed but smug. “…So,” she murmured, voice lower than before.

You swallowed. “So?” She smirked. “Was that how you were going to end your confession?” You gave a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Honestly? The journal kinda did that for me.”

Jenna hummed, pleased. “Good.”

Jenna Ortega x Female Jock Reader

Summary: With their anniversary right around the corner, Y/N finally puts together the perfect day—until fate decides to have other plans.

Word Count: 6.9k

The air at Ravenwood State still smelled like wet grass and victory sweat. Afternoon sun cut low across the field, gilding the turf in streaks of amber, while whistles and shouts carried off with the breeze. You shoved your mouthguard into your bag and slung it over your shoulder, cleats still crunching on gravel as you bolted toward the academic quad. Your shirt was streaked with dirt, your pants scuffed from tackles, but your varsity jacket? Spotless. Always spotless.

“Nice game last night, Harper!” someone hollered from the bleachers.

“Go Ravens!” another shouted, followed by a whistle sharp enough to make you roll your eyes.

You threw a lazy salute without slowing, the weight of your duffel banging against your side. By now, it was routine. Being “Y/N Crash Harper” meant applause when you actually pulled something graceful on the field—and jokes when you tripped over your own bag strap two seconds later.

Ravenwood was a Division 1 campus where athletics were woven into the very fabric of the campus. Football ruled Saturdays, basketball owned the winter, but rugby? Rugby was the cult favorite, the blood-and-bone game where you’dcarved out your name. Three years in, a junior and a kinesiology major, you knew two things for sure: you’d die for your team, and you’d never be on time to class after practice.

“Crash!”

You skid half a step when a familiar bulk fell into stride beside you. Marcus Jameson, star linebacker, still in his Ravens hoodie. He was grinning like a kid in trouble.

“Hey, don’t hate me, but… can you explain the homework from Patrick’s class?”

“Marcus.” You didn’t even break stride. “We have four minutes. Four. Until the door locks. You want a lecture right now?”

He gave you those wide, pleading eyes. “Please, man. I don’t get derivatives. They’re like witchcraft. You’re the only one who can make sense of it.”

You groaned loud enough to startle a flock of birds. “Fine. But if you don't get it, you're a lost cause.” You jabbed at the air as you ran, explaining limits and slopes in the simplest terms possible. By the time you wrapped up, Marcus clapped you on the back so hard you almost face-planted.

“Legend!” he yelled, veering off toward the science building.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, sprinting the last stretch. Your lungs burned. Your jacket stayed spotless.

You hit the math building door with seconds to spare—only to realize your professor wasn’t there yet. You staggered inside, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and the room erupted.

“Harper made it!” someone teased.

“Good game the other night, Crash,” another called from the back.

You fist-bumped Devon from football and Khalil from basketball as you made your way down the row. And then your eyes found her.

There she was. Jenna Ortega.

Gorgeous. Unshakable. Film Studies major with eyes sharp enough to cut through your entire act. Your girlfriend of two years—and this Friday, three.

You still remembered freshman year, catching sight of her across the quad, too nervous to even say hi. Sophomore year, it had all changed. Your teammates had hoisted you after a home game, carried like some dirt-streaked MVP trophy toward a team picture. Jenna had been there with friends, watching. Your eyes met.

When your team set you down, you spotted her leaving. You jogged over, still sweaty, adrenaline buzzing, words tripping out of your mouth like a car with no brakes.

“Uh—hey—I think we—we have Ms. Warren together?”

Jenna had smirked. “You mean Chemistry class, Harper? Yes. I’ve noticed you.”

Your chest nearly split with relief—until she tilted her head, voice dry and amused.

“Wow. You have no idea how to talk to girls, do you?”

Defeat sank into your shoulders. “Y-yeah… um, sorry for wasting your time. I sh-should go—”

But then her hand closed around your wrist. Firm. Certain.

“I said you don’t know how to talk to girls. I didn’t say I wouldn’t listen. Take your time, Crash Dummy. I’m listening.”

The memory hit you as hard as the first time she said it. And now here she was, sitting where she always did, right next to your usual seat. You dropped into the chair beside her, chest still heaving, grin crooked.

You leaned in, aiming for a kiss.

Her pointer finger pressed gently against your lips, stopping you cold. She arched one dark brow, eyes flicking over your mud-streaked shirt, your wild hair.

“Did you wrestle someone in the dirt again, or is this a new look?”

You pouted, lips still pressed against her finger. “Babe. I missed you.”

Jenna’s laugh was low, soft enough that it only belonged to you. Her hand slid from your lips to your chin, tilting your face toward her as she kissed you—smooth, certain, and devastating in its ease. You melted instantly. She pulled back with that proud little smirk, watching your stupid grin spread.

The classroom door banged open. Dr. Patrick rushed in, juggling papers and apologizing for being late. The room erupted in giggles and chatter, but all you felt was Jenna’s hand still resting against your jaw.

And just like that, practice, dirt, chaos, and all—everything had been worth it.

By the time class let out, you were already reaching for Jenna’s bag. She rolled her eyes the second your fingers closed around the strap, but you slung it over your shoulder anyway, satisfied as it settled against your side next to your own.

“You know I can carry my own stuff,” Jenna said, falling into step beside you.

“Uh-uh.” You puffed out your chest as the two of you cut through Ravenwood’s crowded main hall, banners from last night’s basketball win still drooping from the rafters. “You’re dating a jock, babe. That means I carry the heavy things, look intimidating in your peripherals, and make sure people know you’re taken.”

Jenna shot you a sidelong look, all cool dark eyes and raised brows. “You’re carrying a bookbag, Crash. Congratulations—you’re a pack mule.”

You grinned, adjusting the strap higher on your shoulder. “Wrong. I’m excited as hell. I’m a textbook jock. One day, you’re gonna wanna do a film study on the greatest rugby player there ever was. That’s me. Big star. Drenched in glory. Probably nominated for an Oscar in the sports category.”

That earned you a soft laugh, the kind that cracked through her deadpan. She shook her head, shoulders brushing yours as you walked. “If you really want to be a textbook jock, Harper, then you’re as dumb as one.”

You gasped, clutching at your chest with mock hurt, nearly dropping both bags. “Excuse me?”

Her smirk curved slowly and sharply. “What? Don’t pout. Crash Dummy.”

The name hit like it always did, landing warm even when she wielded it like a knife. No one else could get away with calling you that—not teammates, not friends, not even family. Jenna had birthed it, carved it out of that first clumsy conversation sophomore year, and when it came from her mouth, it felt like affection dressed up as an insult.

You nudged her gently with your elbow, feigning offense but already smiling. “One day, you’re gonna regret underestimating me.”

Jenna slipped her hand into yours, casual, unshakable. “One day, you’re gonna trip on your own shoelaces in front of the dining hall. And I’ll still be here.”

Your ears burned. The hall buzzed with teammates and classmates calling out greetings; the Ravenwood dining hall was always alive. But in that moment, it was just her hand in yours, her voice echoing like it was the only one that mattered.

Your dorm, your room, looked like the inside of your brain: messy, scattered, and borderline tragic. Papers were spread across the desk, the door abandoned your cleats, and a half-empty protein shake sat sweating on the windowsill. You were on your bed, flat on your back, varsity jacket still resting on you like armor. One arm covered your face as your phone screen lit up on the blanket beside you, full of unanswered messages from teammates about Practice times, study sessions. You ignored all of it. Your brain was locked on one problem: the anniversary.

It was your year.

And it had to be perfect.

Because last year? Jenna had nailed it.

She’d known exactly where to take you: a drive out to the lake an hour past Ravenwood, where the trees opened up and stars bled across the sky. Blankets in the backseat. Lanterns on the dock. Takeout from your favorite burger joint balanced on her lap. You, in sweatpants, and completely disarmed by how beautiful she made simple things feel.

You remembered leaning against her shoulder, laughing too loud when the dock creaked, swearing the whole thing would give way. Jenna just smiled, steady and unafraid, telling you, “If it breaks, at least we go down together.”

You’d cried that night. Not ugly, not loud—just soft, messy tears you tried to swallow, pressing your sleeve against your eyes. She pretended not to notice until you hiccupped, and then she kissed the corner of your wet cheek, smirking like she’d won.

You’d never live that down. To the world, you were “Crash Harper,” rugby’s tank, Ravenwood’s unstoppable forward. But Jenna knew the truth: beneath the bruises and bravado, you were just a teddy bear—a teddy bear who cried at starry skies and thoughtful dates.

Which meant now… You were doomed.

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. How the hell were you supposed to top that? 

You scribbled half-baked ideas on a notepad:

Fancy dinner (too cliché)

Drive-in movie (film studies major… too obvious)

Concert (tickets sold out)

Just wing it? (She’d kill me)

You growled at yourself and rolled onto your stomach, face buried in your pillow. For once, rugby was easier than love. On the field, you knew what to do: hit hard, keep moving, take the tackle. Off it? With Jenna? Everything felt like fumbling the ball right at the goal line.

You clenched your fists against the pillow. “Get it together, Harper. Don’t cry.”

Your voice cracked anyway.

And somewhere down the hall, you knew if Jenna saw you right now, she’d just shake her head, kiss your cheek, and tell you you’re an idiot for thinking you had to outdo her.

But you were stubborn. This was your year. And you were going to prove that Crash Dummy could get it right.

A knock rattled your door. You groaned into the pillow, hoping the sound alone would send whoever it was packing—no such luck.

“Harper?” Your roommate’s voice muffled through the wood. “You alive in there? Because it smells like protein powder and despair.”

You didn’t move. Just pulled the collar of your varsity jacket to cover your face.

The door creaked open anyway, and there she was—Lily, your freshman-year friend turned long-suffering roommate. She wasn’t an athlete. Not even close. Theater kid through and through. Her idea of a workout was stage combat class. Which meant she had zero patience for your brand of sweaty, self-pitying chaos.

She stepped inside, arms crossed. “It’s been two days. You only leave for class, food, and practice. This is not a healthy ecosystem, Harper. You’re like… a sad zoo exhibit.”

Before you could even lift your head to argue, another voice boomed down the hall:

“Yo, Y/N!”

And then Marcus filled the doorway, broad as a linebacker should be, grinning like he’d caught you doing something scandalous. He took one look at you—curled on the bed, arm over your face like the world’s most dramatic faint—and whistled.

“Damn. You’re still alive. Good. Thought I was gonna have to call in a wellness check. What’s this, Crash? Midseason breakdown?”

You groaned louder, rolling onto your back but refusing to uncover your face. “Go away.”

Marcus strode in anyway, dropping his backpack with a thud that made Lily flinch. “Two days of radio silence? Nah, not you. You’re usually bouncing off walls, dragging people to late-night pizza runs. So what gives? Rugby pressure? Professor Patrick finally break your brain with derivatives?”

Lily sat on your desk, eyes narrowing. “It’s not rugby.”

Marcus raised a brow. “Then what?”

You dragged your hand down your face, exposing tired eyes and the faintest scowl. “Anniversary.”

Marcus blinked. Then barked out a laugh so loud that Lily threw a pen at him.

“Bro, you’ve taken hits from girls twice your size and you’re crying over candlelight dinners?” He leaned against the dresser, grinning ear to ear. “That’s rich. Tell me you’re not trying to outdo Ortega. Because you’re gonna lose. That girl’s clutch.”

You flopped back onto the bed with a groan, arm covering your face again. “That’s the problem! She is clutch! She’s… she’s Jenna. And I’m just—Crash Dummy. I can’t compete with lakeside burgers and starlight!”

Lily softened, her smirk fading into something closer to pity. “You know she doesn’t care about outdoing, right? She cares it’s you.”

You huffed into your sleeve, muffled but stubborn. “Easy for you to say. You’re not dating a genius film major who makes every date feel like the end of a Sundance winner.”

Marcus snorted. “Crash, you’re hopeless.”

“Crash Dummy,” Lily corrected with a grin.

You groaned so hard it rattled the bedsprings.

You sat up finally, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, glaring between Marcus and Lily like they’d dragged you into an intervention. Which, to be fair, they had.

“Okay,” Lily said, steepling her fingers like some evil mastermind. “Rule one: stop trying to reinvent romance. Jenna doesn’t want fireworks or skywriting. She wants you. So keep it thoughtful, but simple.”

Marcus flopped into your desk chair, spinning once before it groaned under his weight. “Yeah, Crash. You’re not out here trying to win a Heisman. You gotta show up. With, you know, a plan.”

You groaned, dragging your hands through your hair. “That’s the problem! I don’t have one. Nothing tops lakeside burgers and the Milky Way, Marcus. Nothing.”

Lily leaned forward, dark eyes sparking. “Wrong. Jenna’s been raving about that new movie all week. The one by her favorite director, George Alvarez. That’s your opening play. Movie first.”

You blinked. “Okay… movie. Sure. That buys me two hours of not screwing up.”

Marcus pointed a finger at you, deadly serious. “Then food. Not fast food. Not chain pizza. Actual nice spot. But not so nice you look like you stole your mom’s credit card. Something in the middle.”

Lily’s grin widened. “The bistro off campus. They serve her favorite gnocchi, and the wine doesn’t cost your soul.”

You felt your shoulders sag. For the first time in days, a flicker of hope lit up. “Movie. Dinner. Wine. That’s… actually not terrible.”

Marcus smirked. “You’re welcome.”

“And then,” Lily said, like she was tying a bow on the whole thing, “you drive her out to the ridge. Stars if you’re late. Sunset if you’re early. Either way—sky, quiet, you two. Simple. Romantic. Done.”

Your throat tightened, but you coughed to cover it. “You guys are—this is—okay, yeah. That’s… perfect.”

“Crash is gonna cry again,” Marcus teased, throwing a wadded-up paper ball at you.

You caught it, scowled, and tossed it back twice as hard. “Shut up.”

But when you leaned back against the headboard, grinning despite yourself, you realized maybe you weren’t doomed after all.

Jenna’s apartment was warm, with a cozy atmosphere that came from mismatched throw blankets and half-burnt candles. The TV hummed low in the background, some old movie rolling while your textbooks lay forgotten on the coffee table. You’d been oddly calm all evening—too calm, apparently.

Jenna shifted against you on the couch, side-eyeing your stillness. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

You smirked without looking away from the screen. “Studying took it out of me.”

“Mhm.” She let the silence stretch a beat before tilting her head, a sly little smile tugging at her lips. “Babe, did you forget what’s tomorrow?”

You turned your head slowly, feigning confusion. “Tomorrow?”

Her brows rose. “Tomorrow.”

You leaned back, lips twitching. “No clue.”

Jenna narrowed her eyes, but before she could say more, you lunged, arms slipping around her waist. She squeaked as you tugged her into your lap, lifting her easily until she was straddling you.

“Y/N—”

But you were already peppering her in kisses, quick little pecks across her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her lips. She laughed, squirming, trying to push you away, but you only held her tighter, relentless.

“Stop—Y/N—stop!” she gasped between laughs, but her hands only ended up tangled in your hoodie, holding on.

“I have no idea what’s tomorrow~,” you teased against her skin, dropping another kiss to her temple, then another to the tip of her nose.

She shook her head, breathless, eyes shining. “You’re insufferable.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, still smiling, your chest rising and falling beneath her weight. For a second, the playfulness softened.

“Tomorrow’s going to be perfect,” you said, voice low, steady. Your hands flexed gently at her waist as you met her gaze. “I promise.”

Jenna studied you for a moment, her smirk easing into something fonder, softer. And though she didn’t say it out loud, the way she leaned in and kissed you slowly told you she believed you.

The sun had barely cleared the Ravenwood quad when your dorm room came alive with music. Not the usual pump-up playlist for practice, but Jenna’s favorite album, blasting through your tiny speaker. The room, for once, was spotless. No socks in the corner, no muddy cleats by the bed. Just you, fresh out of the shower, hair damp, a collared shirt tugged over your shoulders, jeans pressed, loafers polished.

You sang into the hairbrush like it was a mic, spinning around in time with the beat. The scent Jenna liked best clung to your wrists and collar, sharp and warm, and you danced with the effortless swagger of someone who had it all under control.

Halfway through brushing your hair, you grabbed your phone, tucking it between your ear and your shoulder while you called the restaurant. “Yeah—reservation for Harper, 7:30. Two. Got it. Thank you.” You hung up, tossed the phone onto the bed, and went right back to singing off-key.

By the time the bassline cut, a text flashed across your screen: Outside.

Your heart jumped. You snatched your jacket and bolted.

Down in the parking lot, Jenna’s car gleamed under the late afternoon light. You walked straight to her side, tugging the door open with a flourish. “After you~.” You bowed low, grinning like an idiot.

Jenna slid out, an unimpressed smile tugging at her lips, but she didn’t hide the way her eyes softened as you straightened. She stepped into view—and you stopped cold.

Jeans. Dark, fitted. A crisp blouse tucked neatly, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Simple, understated, yet devastating. She didn’t need a skirt or a dress. She looked like she’d stepped out of her own film reel—poised, sharp, beautiful in that way that knocked the air right out of you.

You let out a low whistle. “Damn. You sure you don’t want me to keep you in the dorm? Hate to show you off like this. Dangerous.”

Jenna laughed, slipping her arms around your neck before you could say more. “Shut up.” Her lips brushed yours, soft at first, then deeper as you wrapped your arms around her waist, holding her close like you’d never let go.

And then—because you couldn’t resist—you bent your knees, slid an arm under her legs, and lifted. Bridal style. Jenna squealed, swatting at your shoulder even as she clung tighter.

“Crash! Put me down!”

“Not until you’re properly chauffeured, ma’am.” You smirked, carrying her toward the passenger side. Somehow, with one arm, you managed to open the car door, lowering her gently into the seat like she was made of glass.

She sat back, shaking her head, a laugh caught between disbelief and fondness. “You’re absolutely textbook, you know that? Textbook lover. And a doofus.”

You leaned against the doorframe, smug grin tugging at your mouth. “But I’m your doofus.”

Her eyes flicked up, warm and unguarded, before she reached out and tugged your collar just enough to steal one last kiss.

You shut the door, heart thudding, and jogged around to the driver’s side. Hands steady on the wheel, you pulled out of the lot, the music from the speakers humming low as the Ravenwood gates blurred behind you. Headed straight for the cinema.

The drive was smooth, laughter filling the car between stolen kisses at red lights. Jenna leaned back in her seat, one ankle crossed over the other, eyes flicking to you with suspicion.

“So,” she asked casually, “what’s on the agenda?”

You kept your eyes on the road, lips twitching at the corners. “You’ll see.”

She studied you a second longer, but you didn’t crack. Instead, you pulled into the cinema lot, heart thrumming with pride. You’d nailed this. The surprise, the timing, the one thing you knew would make her lose that unflappable cool.

You cut the engine, hopped out, and went around to her side. Hand out, bow exaggerated. “After you~.”

But Jenna only smirked, swatting your hand away as she slid out herself. “Cute,” she said, brushing her blouse smooth. Then, with a laugh, she hooked her arm through yours, tugging you closer as you walked toward the glowing marquee.

Halfway there, the pieces clicked. Her steps quickened, eyes widening.

“Wait,” she breathed, tilting her head up at you. “We’re going to see Alvarez’s new film? The Eternal Frame?”

Her voice pitched higher than usual, a tremor of excitement breaking through. Jenna Ortega—calm, sharp, composed—was grinning like a kid at Christmas.

You bent to press a kiss to the top of her head, smug. “Yeah, babe.”

She buried her face against your arm, her grip tightening. You could feel the heat in her cheeks even as she tried to hide it.

“You know how cute you are when you get flustered?” you teased, chest puffing up. “I’m usually the one at a loss for words. So, when I get you to blush like that? I wear it like a badge of honor.”

Jenna let out a tiny, uncharacteristic giggle. Then she pulled you down into a soft kiss right there in line. When she pulled away, her eyes were softer, molten. “Thank you. I’ve wanted to see this so badly.”

Your heart nearly burst. Foreheads pressed together, you savored the moment, the warmth of her hand clutching your sleeve, the glow of neon flickering above.

By the time you reached the ticket counter, you were floating. You slid the confirmation across with all the pride of someone showing off a trophy. “Two for The Eternal Frame. Already bought online.”

The teenage boy behind the glass glanced at the tickets, then at you. His expression didn’t change. “Sorry, ma’am. Theater’s full.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Yeah. Online oversold.” He shrugged, chewing gum like he was narrating your doom. “Would’ve been better to just buy at the counter like everyone else did. We sold out a minute ago.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. “But—I paid. I bought these days ago—”

“Can’t do anything about it.” He tapped at the screen without looking up. “The only thing I can offer is a coupon.”

You leaned forward, desperate. “A refund?”

He slid a slip of paper across the counter. “Fifty cents off a large popcorn.”

You stared at it. An actual tear of humiliation threatened to sting the corner of your eye. Fifty cents. Against everything you’d planned, everything you’d promised Jenna. Your whole chest squeezed, the walls of the lobby spinning with chatter and neon.

Behind you, Jenna’s arm slid around your waist. She didn’t laugh, didn’t sigh—just leaned in, calm as ever, grounding you.

But in your head, the words were already screaming:

I promised her perfection. And I blew it before dinner even started.

The coupon sat between your fingers like a personal insult. Fifty cents off popcorn. That was it. That was your compensation for the days of spiraling, the hours of cleaning your room, the cologne/perfume, the shirt, the sheer pride you’d walked in here with. Your chest clenched, jaw tight, the neon lights of the lobby blurring around you.

“I—” you started, voice sharp, ready to argue your way into the theater.

But then Jenna’s hand slid against your back, steady and sure, tugging you just enough that you had to look at her. Calm eyes, steady smile. She was soft where you were fire.

“Baby,” she murmured, thumb brushing over the edge of your jacket. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you hissed, glaring at the useless slip of paper.

“Yes, it is.” She tilted her head, a smirk tugging faintly at her mouth. “Alvarez is a good storyteller. His movies will outlive us both. So what if this showing sold out? We’ll catch it another time.”

You blew out a shaky breath, fists tight at your sides. She leaned in closer, dropping her voice like she was narrating.

“Every story has conflict, Crash. Otherwise, it’s boring. This?” Her smirk curved into something fonder. “This is just a plot twist.”

Something in you cracked, the spiral loosening. You let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping. “You’re right… yeah. It’sall good.”

Jenna smiled like she’d just won a bet.

But the stubborn fire in your chest still burned. You weren’t about to let your perfect night tank on a coupon. You turned to her, jaw set. “Or—we drive. There’s another theater in Westbrook. Maybe Larchmont, too. I’ll get us in even if I have to bribe the projector guy.”

Jenna blinked. “Crash—”

“No. No giving up.” You grinned, the edge of manic creeping in. “You said yes to dating me; you knew what you signed up for. If Ravenwood Cinema can’t handle us, then fine. We take our love story on the road.”

Jenna’s laugh bubbled out, warm and real, breaking through her usual composure. She looped her arm through yours, resting her cheek against your sleeve, hiding the grin tugging at her mouth.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said softly. Then, even quieter: “And I love you.”

That was enough to melt the last of the panic in your chest. You kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo as you pressed her closer.

“Buckle up, Ortega,” you murmured, steering her toward the car again. “We’re making this night happen—even if it means sitting through that dumb movie about the dog who inherits a bakery.”

She pulled back just enough to kiss you, quick and soft, before smirking against your lips. “Pick your chaos, Crash Dummy. I’m along for the ride.”

And with that, you tightened your hand around hers, the glow of the theater fading behind you as the car keys jingled in your pocket.

Westbrook was a bust. The box office kid there had laughed, actually laughed, when you asked about tickets.

“Sold out months ago,” he said, like it was obvious.

Which was how you ended up an hour and forty minutes down the interstate, headlights tracing the dark road to Larchmont, traffic snarled at every merge.

Your forehead pressed against the steering wheel as brake lights stretched endlessly in front of you. Knuckles white, jaw locked.

“Crash,” Jenna’s voice came soft from the passenger seat.

You grunted, eyes glued forward.

“Babe, relax. You’re going to bend the wheel.”

“I promised you perfect,” you muttered. “And so far, we’ve got: oversold, sold out, and traffic that makes me want to eat glass.”

A pause. Then warmth. Her hand sliding over yours on the gearshift, steady and calm.

“You promised me a night with you. That’s already perfect.”

You exhaled, chest loosening despite yourself. She always knew where to press.

By the time you rolled into Larchmont, the traffic had cleared. The neon marquee hummed, a small victory. And inside, miracle of miracles—the woman at the counter smiled.

“Yes, we’ve got two tickets left.”

You nearly cried as you handed her your card. “See, babe? Told you tonight would be perfect.”

Jenna smirked, leaning into your side as you left the counter, arms brushing. “Mm. We’ll see.”

Concessions in hand, you slid into the seats of the dim theater. And to your amazement, it was empty—just the two of you.

Jenna tucked herself against you, voice bubbling as the previews rolled. “Okay, so remember in The Silent Corridor—the way Alvarez used negative space to show absence? I swear this is going to connect thematically. Look, see? Even the title card—”

You half-listened, half-daydreamed, watching her talk with that rare spark in her eyes. Nothing made her lose composure like Alvarez. Nothing made your chest ache like watching her in her element.

The screen went black.

At first, you thought it was part of the opening. But the seconds stretched. A cough echoed somewhere in the back. Then footsteps.

The manager appeared at the front of the room, looking harried. “We apologize, ladies. The projector just broke.”

Silence. A long, merciless beat.

You stared ahead, numb. The universe had it out for you.

Then Jenna’s hand slid over yours again. She nodded once, lips curving into the faintest smile. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

The manager shuffled closer, holding out a slip of paper. “As compensation, here’s a coupon—three percent off the candy of your choice.”

You stared at it. Three. Percent. Your whole body went still, every cell vibrating with disbelief.

Jenna took it delicately, like it wasn’t the single most insulting coupon ever printed, and tucked it into her pocket.“Thank you.”

Her composure didn’t crack. Yours nearly did.

You stalked back and forth across the carpet of the Larchmont cinema lobby, hands shoved in your hair, words spilling out faster than your brain could keep up.

“I did everything right, Jenna! I checked times, bought tickets early, mapped the route, wore the scent you like—” You spun on your heel, throwing your arms wide. “And what do we get? Oversold. Sold out. Traffic. A busted projector and a coupon for three percent off candy! Three percent! Do you know how much that even saves? Like—thirty cents on a ten-dollar box of Milk Duds!”

Jenna leaned against the concession counter, watching you pace like she was at a private screening. Calm, and utterly unbothered.

“Crash—”

“No! Don’t you ‘Crash’ me. I promised you perfect, and instead, this night’s turning into one of those bad student films where everything that can go wrong does!”

Finally, your voice cracked. You froze mid-stride, chest heaving, the weight of the evening pressing down. You rubbed your palms over your face, swallowing hard.

Jenna pushed off the counter, walking toward you with that steady gait. She caught your wrists, lowering them gently.“Hey. Look at me.”

Your eyes met hers, wild, burning.

“This is fine,” she said softly. “Because you’re here. That’s what I wanted. Not a film, not a theater, not a ticket stub. Just you.”

Something loosened inside your ribs. Breath left you in a ragged rush, the tension finally slipping out of your shoulders.

And then—the sky cracked. Thunder roared, lightning streaking across the horizon. A second later, rain came down in sheets.

You both bolted for the car, laughing breathlessly. Jenna darted inside first, pulling the door shut just as you hit the curb. Except your foot didn’t hit pavement—it plunged straight into a pothole hidden under the rushing water.

You staggered, soaked head to toe, then dragged yourself upright, grimacing as you trudged the last few steps. Sliding into the driver’s seat, you rested your head against the wheel with a groan.

Jenna blinked, rainwater dripping down her temple. “…You good?”

You lifted your head just enough to glance at the clock. Your stomach dropped. “Holy shit. Dinner. We’ve got two hours—and we’re two hours away.”

The drive blurred. Wipers squealed, headlights cut through rain, your grip tight on the wheel. Jenna sat beside you, humming low, steady, a hand resting on your thigh as if to tether you.

By the time you pulled into the lot of the bistro, you were drenched, hair plastered to your forehead, clothes sticking to your skin. And the clock on the dash mocked you: 7:33. Three minutes late.

The maître d’ shook his head at the counter, lips pursed. “I’m sorry. The reservation was for 7:30. We’ve given your table away. Serious customers were waiting.”

You opened your mouth, ready to beg, but Jenna’s hand on your arm stopped you. The words stuck in your throat.

Outside, you stood beneath the awning, water dripping off the fabric in steady rivulets. The street hummed with traffic, rain pounding the pavement, the smell of wet asphalt heavy in the air.

You said nothing. Neither did Jenna. You just stood side by side, soaked, three minutes too late for everything.

Rain poured like the sky itself had given up. It drummed against the awning above you, ran down your jacket, soaked your shoes. You stood there stiff, staring at the street as if you focused hard enough, you could stop everything from unraveling. But your chest heaved. Your throat tightened. And then—quiet, almost shameful—your breath hitched.

The first tear slipped. Then another. You pressed your palm to your face, shaking your head as if you could will it all back into place.

Jenna’s voice cut through, low and steady. “Y/N Harper.”

You froze. Nobody used your full name like that. Only her. Only when she meant it.

“Look at me.”

You did, reluctantly. She was standing inches away, drenched hair sticking to her cheeks, mascara smudged just slightly under her dark eyes. Still beautiful. Still unshaken.

“What’s this about?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was honest. A scalpel, not a hammer. “Why are you tearing yourself apart over tonight?”

You swallowed hard, words scraping out raw. “Because it was supposed to be perfect.”

“Perfect,” she echoed.

“Yeah.” Your laugh cracked, bitter. “Not just better than last year. Not a competition. Just… perfect. For once. Because how the hell does a perfect girl like you end up with a screw-up like me?”

Her eyes softened, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“I mean—I’m not dumb, I know that. But I’m Crash. The clumsy one. The idiot who can’t book tickets right, who trips over her own feet, who… who promised you a night worth remembering and gave you coupons instead.” Your voice broke, thick with tears. “I’m not comparing myself to you, Jenna. You’re… you’re brilliant. You’re calm and composed, and so damn beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes. And me? I’m just grateful. Grateful I even got to know you, that I even got to love you.”

The words poured, heavy, unstoppable. “This was supposed to be the night I showed you that. That I’m not just some dumb jock. That I see you. That I know how lucky I am. And instead—”

Your voice cracked completely. You turned your head, ashamed.

Jenna didn’t let you hide. She reached up, both hands cupping your face, rain-slick fingers sliding over your cheeks. She tilted you toward her, grounding you in the weight of her gaze.

“Crash Dummy,” she whispered. It wasn’t a jab. It was reverent. A secret. A vow.

You blinked, trembling under her touch.

“Don’t you get it?” she murmured, leaning closer until her forehead rested against yours, rain dripping from her lashes.“You’re the reason I said yes. The reason I keep saying yes. Not perfect plans. Not perfect nights. You. Messy, clumsy, stubborn, loud, too-big-hearted, you. You’re what I fell for.”

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it. She held you steady.

“And if you think I’m perfect, Harper…” She shook her head, a tear mixing with the rain. “…then you haven’t been watching closely enough. I’m not perfect. But you—you love me like I am. And that’s worth more than any reservation or movie ticket.”

Her lips brushed yours—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that stitched you back together even as you broke. You melted into her, trembling, her hands firm at your jaw as if she could keep you from slipping away.

When she finally pulled back, her voice was low, steady. “Tonight’s perfect because it’s ours. Because it’s you. Don’tyou dare forget that.”

The rain hammered on, drowning the world around you, but under the awning, it was only her breath against yours, her heartbeat steady against your chest, her love wrapping around you like armor you never thought you deserved.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself believe her.

You clung to each other under the dripping awning, the storm folding the world into a blur of gray and neon. Your breathing was uneven, but Jenna’s was steady, anchoring you. Her hands slid from your cheeks to the back of your neck, pulling you close enough that your foreheads touched.

She brushed the water off your cheek with her thumb, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “If this were a movie,” she said, voice low, teasing but true, “this would be the part where the audience is rooting for you to stop spiraling and just kiss the girl.”

You opened your mouth—an apology on your lips—but she pressed her palm over it gently.

“This is perfect, Crash,” she murmured, inches away. “If our anniversary went smoothly, it wouldn’t be us. Nothing comes easy to you, and I fell in love with that. You make every moment feel real. Messy, but real. I don’t want polished. I want you.”

Your throat burned, tears slipping fresh as you laughed, shaky and wet. She laughed too, the sound breaking through the storm like a hymn. Your noses brushed, foreheads pressed, the most minor rub of affection sparking a warmth that had nothing to do with the rain.

For a moment, the world was just that: two idiots drenched and clinging to each other under the hum of the storm.

Then, over Jenna’s shoulder, you spotted it. A flickering neon sign, half the letters burnt out. The Red Lantern Diner.Ugly brick, rusted awning, rain pooling in potholes out front.

“Come on,” you murmured, tugging Jenna’s hand.

Inside, warmth hit like a balm. The place was worn—linoleum floors scuffed, booths patched with duct tape—but it glowed with a golden light, the hum of old heaters, and a jukebox in the corner playing something low and sweet.

The waitress, gray hair pulled into a bun, paused when she saw you two dripping on her tile. Then her face softened, and her voice took on a warm tone. “Oh, sweethearts. Get over here, by the heater.”

You blinked, stunned, but she was already ushering you toward a booth by the window where the rain slid down the glass in streaks, catching the glow of passing headlights. She pressed two clean hand towels into your hands, patting Jenna’s shoulder. “Dry off. You’ll catch a cold.”

You sat across from Jenna, steam from the heater curling against your damp skin. She tucked one towel into her lap, dabbing her sleeves, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I judged it,” she admitted quietly, glancing around the cozy little space. “Didn’t think a place that looked like that on the outside could feel like this on the inside.”

You grinned, heart swelling. “Kind of like me, huh?”

Jenna smirked, leaning across the table to brush her nose against yours again. “Exactly like you.”

And for the first time that night, you felt the weight lift. Maybe messy really was perfect.

The waitress brought plates steaming with comfort food—pasta in chipped bowls, grilled cheese oozing at the edges, fries piled high, still glistening with oil. It wasn’t five-star cuisine. It wasn’t even what you’d planned. But under the hum of the heater, with rain dripping down the wide front window, it felt perfect.

You leaned back in the booth, damp sleeves rolled up, laughing as you recounted it all—the oversold tickets, the busted projector, the pothole. Jenna shook her head, grinning, her laugh soft and melodic.

“Adventure, intrigue, suspense,” she said, tapping her fork against her plate. “Honestly, this might be my favorite anniversary yet. It had the bones of a great Alvarez film.”

You snorted, cheeks pink. “At least technically… we saw one of his movies. Lived one, really.”

“Exactly.” She smirked, raising her glass of soda like a toast. “Two things on the checklist. Film and food.”

The warmth bubbled in your chest, but a shadow tugged at your smile. You toyed with your napkin, frowning. “We were supposed to end with the stars. Or the sunset.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, the rain’s steady drumming filling the gap. Jenna’s gaze shifted to the window.

Then she stood, smooth and certain, sliding out of her side of the booth. You blinked as she circled around and dropped onto the seat beside you, still semi-damp, sliding in close until your shoulders touched. Her warmth pressed against you, grounding.

She tilted her chin toward the window, eyes gleaming with a quiet smile. Outside, rain streaked the glass, catching the glow of streetlamps and headlights. Blurred red, gold, and silver lights shimmered across the pavement like scattered constellations.

“Check,” she murmured, her voice soft against your ear. “The city’s version of stars. Right here.”

You turned, and she was already watching you, rainlight reflecting in her eyes. She nestled closer, head against your shoulder, her hand finding yours under the table.

As they sit beside the rain-streaked glass, Jenna turns her head, brushes her nose against yours again, and whispers:

“Perfect.”

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Summary: Y/N faces twins, pastries, and Wilma’s schemes; Jenna endures endless takes and a prying co-star. But nothing prepares them for the moment their first kiss stops belonging to them, and starts trending.

Word Count: 6.4k

The days stretched out, one after another, like espresso shots pulled too long — bitter, thin, missing the bite they used to have.

I went through the motions. Grind beans. Steam milk. Wipe counters. Smile at strangers who sometimes weren't strangers at all — a singer from a chart-topping band ducking in with oversized sunglasses, a sitcom star slipping through the door just to drink coffee like a normal person. The Daily Grind was still a safe haven where celebrities could breathe without a lens in their face.

No photos. No videos. That was the rule. And it was enforced so fiercely that when some cocky kid rebel tried filming on their phone, the boutique bodyguard next door hauled them out so fast it looked rehearsed. Customers clapped. I just went back to wiping the counter.

But even with celebrities at her counter and the hum of the espresso machine steady as breath, I felt the dullness creeping in.

A month since the airport. A month since Jenna.

The texts had been steady at first — good morning selfies, tired voice notes, jokes that only made sense to them. Little lifelines braided across the miles. Then the trickle slowed. Once, three whole days passed without a single ping. I remembered staring at my screen until my eyes hurt, whispering, "Don't be needy, don't be like that."

But I was like that because I had it bad.

I missed her lips.

Our first kiss replayed like a broken record — the way Jenna pulled me closer, how the noise of the airport fell away until there was only us. I hadn't known I could crave someone's mouth like oxygen. Now every cup of coffee tasted duller. Every laugh I let slip fell flat without her.

Marcus noticed first, dropping by after his shift, watching as I stared at the window instead of at him. Caleb teased me about zoning out mid-conversation, smirking but worried beneath it. Even Mr. Noodles seemed unimpressed, swatting my hand away if I tried to pet him while sulking.

And Wilma — Wilma saw everything.

Which was why, one night after closing, with the shop locked and the ovens cooling, we stayed behind to prep for the upcoming Festival of Lights. This annual community event transformed the entire market district into a bustling battlefield of booths and food stalls.

Every restaurant, every café, every bakery fought to outdo the others. And every year, The Copper Ladle, a local bistro that's overhyped, takes the trophy.

"Not this year," Wilma muttered, her eyes alight like a general before war. "This year, The Daily Grind wins. I don't care if I have to throw cinnamon rolls at the judges. We're taking it." I tried to focus on rolling out the pastry dough and arranging the labels, but my hands felt sluggish. 

Wilma finally dropped her spatula with a clatter.

"Okay. Therapy session. Now."

Y/N blinked. "What?"

"You're somewhere else, honey, and it's not with these croissants. Talk."

I hesitated, then sighed, the words spilling. "I just… I don't want to bother her. Jenna. She's filming nonstop. Last time I texted too much, she didn't answer me for three days. I felt—needy."

Wilma's brows softened. I fiddled with my wristband, thumb brushing over it out of habit. It didn't light up anymore.

"At first," I said quietly, "we had this thing. The bracelets. You tap one, the other glows. Stupid little gadget, but… it was like proof she was there, you know? Even when she couldn't text, I'd feel it buzz. It made the distance easier." My throat tightened. "But then it just… stopped. No more buzzes back. I kept trying for a while, but eventually…" I trailed off, staring at the counter. "I don't know. I figured she was too busy. Or maybe I was too much."

Wilma folded her arms, tilting her head. "Or maybe she misplaced it, or it broke, or it's at the bottom of some costume trunk. Don't write a whole tragedy when you don't know the ending yet."

I gave a small, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Maybe." I replied, still rubbing my thumb over the dark band like it would suddenly glow.

Wilma crossed her arms, eyes softening. "Or maybe she was just busy being Jenna Ortega, future horror queen of the world."

I laughed weakly, shaking my head. "I just… I miss her. The drop-off, the airport, that kiss—" I stopped, cheeks heating.

Wilma smirked. "Yeah...I know about the kiss."

I whipped her head around. "Wai-...What!? How?"

Wilma unlocked her phone and spun it around. On the screen: a shaky video from the airport. Our kiss. The forehead touch. I leaned in to whisper something against Jenna's hair — drowned out by flight announcements.

The caption screamed:

Who is this mystery person? What are they to Jenna Ortega? Can anyone tell what they said after the kiss?

My jaw dropped. "No."

"Yes," Wilma said, grinning wickedly. "It's been viral for weeks. That post? Two hundred and fifty thousand likes. Nearly a million views. And climbing."

I snatched the phone out of her hand. "HEY!" she yelped, but I didn't care. I stared at the looping video, at myself — at us. Jenna was looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered.

My heart clenched, heavy and sweet all at once, like it didn't know whether to burst or break.

I couldn't look away from the screen. The shaky video looped over and over — my hands cupping Jenna's face, the kiss, the forehead touch, my lips moving in a whisper no one could hear. It should've been private. A goodbye meant only for us.

Now it had hashtags. Angles. Speculation.

"Oh, shit," I muttered, throat dry. "What have I done?"

Wilma plucked the phone back with a sharp tsk. "What you've done is kiss a movie star in the middle of LAX, babe. Of course, people filmed it. Of course it blew up."

I dragged a hand over my face. "I wasn't thinking about cameras. I wasn't thinking about—God, Jenna's whole career. What if this ruins something for her? What if people—"

"Stop." Wilma's voice cut through, firm as a blade.

I froze, shoulders tense.

She softened just enough to catch my eyes. "You're spiraling. Look at me. Did she kiss you back?"

The answer was immediate. "Yes."

"Did she look like she regretted it?"

I shook my head, remembering the way Jenna's smile had brushed against my cheek.

"Then breathe. She knew exactly what she was doing. And if you think Jenna Ortega doesn't know how cameras work by now? Please." Wilma smirked. "She's fine. You're the one making yourself sick."

I dropped my hands to the counter, palms flat against the cool steel. "I just… I don't want to be the reason she gets dragged. Or the reason people look at her differently."

Wilma leaned her hip against the counter, arms crossing, eyes steady. "You think kissing Jenna Ortega is gonna ruin her? Please. If anything, it makes people love her more. Look at the comments — they're all swooning, dying to know who you are. No hate, no scandal. Just curiosity."

I shook my head, chewing the inside of my cheek. "But if they find me—"

"They will." Wilma didn't soften it. "They already have. Your coffee shop's been busier, hasn't it? And those teens with their phones? They're not here for the lattes. They're here for you. For the girl who kissed Jenna Ortega like she was the sun."

My throat worked around a lump I couldn't swallow. The video looped in my head again — Jenna's hands pulling me close, her forehead pressed to mine like we were the only two people in the world. It had been ours. Just ours. And now it belonged to everyone.

The words hit hard, sinking heavy in my chest. I hadn't thought about it like that — the way strangers had been watching me, recording me without asking. I thought of Jenna's lips, soft and sure, the way my heart had thundered when we broke apart. That moment had been mine. Ours.

Now it belonged to the internet.

"I don't know how to feel," I admitted quietly. "I can't stop thinking about her, but every time I remember that kiss, it's not just my memory anymore. It's… everybody's."

Wilma let out a breath, softer this time, her competitive fire banked down to embers. She leaned across the counter until her eyes caught mine. "You're allowed to hate that. To be pissed, it's no longer private. But don't twist it into shame. That kiss wasn't theirs first — it was yours. It was hers. They can screenshot it a million times, but they'll never know what she whispered back, or how it felt when she touched you. That part? That's still yours."

Wilma's expression softened, her fire banked but steady, her voice softening just enough to cut through. "So here's what you do. You remember who you kissed. Not the cameras. Not the strangers. You kissed Jenna. And she kissed you back."

I blinked, throat tight.

"You think Jenna Ortega, queen of controlled image, would've let anyone kiss her like that if she didn't want to? Please." Wilma smirked, sharp as ever. "That girl was gone for you."

A shaky laugh broke out of me, tension unraveling just a little. "You make it sound easy."

"It's not easy," Wilma said, her voice gentling. "But it's real. And that's worth holding onto. Forget the noise. Focus on her. Always."

I leaned against the counter, heart aching. Focus on her. Always.

Wilma let the silence hang for a beat before bumping my shoulder with hers. "And in the meantime, I need my mascot at a hundred percent. The Festival of Lights waits for no one."

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face, but her teasing grin made it impossible not to laugh. For the first time all night, the café felt lighter. We went back to work, side by side, the ovens humming as if nothing in the world could touch us.

The next morning, I pushed open the shop door, the bell chiming above my head, and nearly caught a bran muffin to the face.

I stopped dead, bag slung over my shoulder, as the offending pastry bounced off the doorframe and hit the floor with a sad little splat.

Two figures darted past, shrieking like banshees. I blinked down at them as they skidded to a stop.

"Theo," I said flatly. "Tilly."

Both twins — tall for thirteen, all elbows and knees and mischief — flung themselves at me in tandem, nearly knocking the bag from my shoulder. "Y/N!" they chorused, grinning wide as if they hadn't just assaulted me with breakfast.

Across the counter, Wilma's voice rang out, sharp as a gavel. "You monsters! I told you to stay out of the pastry case!"

Theo still clung to me like a backpack, muffled laughter shaking his skinny frame. "It wasn't me! It was Tilly!"

"Liar," Tilly shot back, her braid whipping me in the face as she turned on her twin. "You're the one who launched it. My aim's way better."

I groaned, peeling them off like stubborn stickers. "Great. My day starts with a food fight. Just what I needed."

She was bent over the display, hurriedly stacking trays of croissants while muttering under her breath. When she looked up, her cheeks were pink with embarrassment. "Sorry, Y/N. Mama begged me to bring them. They wanted to 'help' since they blew their allowance on…" She trailed off, glaring at her siblings.

Tilly piped up, eyes shining with pride. "Five pounds of jelly."

"And a foghorn," Theo added, nodding solemnly.

I raised an eyebrow. "…A foghorn?"

"Yeah," Tilly grinned. "For science."

Wilma groaned, shoving a tray into place. "They're planning some prank, I know it. Jelly and a foghorn don't belong in the same sentence unless destruction is involved."

Theo and Tilly beamed like cherubs caught red-handed.

I sighed, already feeling the day stretching long and loud ahead of me. "So… they're here to help?"

"Help," Wilma echoed grimly, as Theo made a grab for the sugar jars and Tilly tried to balance a tray on her head.

I slid my bag behind the counter and muttered under my breath, "This is gonna be a day."

By midmorning, I knew I should've worn a helmet.

Theo and Tilly had declared themselves "junior baristas," which was code for chaos. While Wilma barked orders and tried to keep the pastry trays looking civilized, I played reluctant referee in what felt like a caffeine-fueled circus.

The twins stationed themselves by the counter, armed with Sharpies and paper cups.

"Name?" Theo asked one poor customer, a tired dad with a stroller.

"Daniel," the man replied.

Theo scribbled and handed the cup over. Sir Pickleface.

Tilly doubled over, clutching her stomach.

The next customer fared no better, walking away with a latte labeled Countess Fluffbottom.

I intercepted the third attempt, plucking the marker from Theo's hand. "Congratulations," I said flatly. "You're fired."

"But I don't even get paid!" he argued.

"Exactly," I deadpanned. "Hazard pay only." Then came the tirvia duel while I tried to wipe down tables, the twins shadowed me like little gremlins.

"Would you rather fight a vampire or marry one?" Tilly demanded, blocking my path with her arms crossed.

I blinked. "What kind of vampire?"

Theo jumped in. "Dracula, obviously."

I snorted. "Fight him. Marriage paperwork would be a nightmare."

The twins howled with laughter, firing off more questions rapid-fire. "Zombie pet or ghost roommate? Never sleep again or never eat pizza again?"

I answered each one with dryness, which only egged them on. By the third round, customers had begun placing bets on my answers, sliding tips into a jar labeled "Y/N vs. Chaos."

When things calmed — briefly — I turned to find the twins dragging chairs and cushions into the corner.

"What… are you doing?" I asked, dread in my voice.

Tilly peeked out from behind a wall of café chairs. "Building Headquarters of Chaos!"

Theo waved a muffin like a victory flag. "Password required for entry!"

The customers nearby laughed, some even snapping photos until the bodyguard from next door poked his head in with a warning glare.

Wilma pinched the bridge of her nose. "You two are going to make me lose my mind."

I sighed, crouching to eye level with their fort. "Fine. What's the password?"

The twins exchanged a conspiratorial grin. "Jenna Ortega!"

I froze, caught between horror and a laugh I couldn't hold back.

As the day dragged on, they circled back like sharks.

"So," Theo asked casually, leaning over the counter. "When's Jenna coming back?"

I blinked. "What makes you think she's—"

"Because you smile at your phone like an idiot," Tilly cut in.

Wilma nearly dropped a tray from laughing. I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

By the end of the rush, the fort was dismantled, the Sharpies hidden, and the muffin crumbs swept. The twins sprawled across a booth, sticky but proud. Wilma muttered darkly about child labor laws while reorganizing the pastry case.

I leaned against the counter, sipping what had to be my fourth coffee. The twins' chaos had kept me busy enough not to drown in thoughts of Jenna — but now, in the brief lull, my chest tightened again. The noise faded, and I thought of that first kiss. Of Jenna's lips. Of the quiet that came after.

I sighed, shaking it off. Maybe the chaos wasn't such a curse. It could be keeping me afloat.

By the time the sun dipped behind the strip of storefronts, The Daily Grind looked more like a battlefield than a café. Chairs sat crooked at odd angles, sugar scattered like confetti, a single muffin carcass wedged under the pastry case.

Wilma herded the twins toward the door, muttering under her breath about child-proof cages. I dragged my bag onto her shoulder, locking the register with a tired click. My whole body ached, but for the first time in weeks, I didn't mind.

Outside, the cool night air hit my face as I leaned against her car. Wilma strapped Theo and Tilly into the back of her minivan, both still buzzing from their day of "work."

"Good distractions," I murmured, lips twitching into a smile. "Chaotic… but good."

Most of the customers hadn't minded the madness. Some even tipped bigger, laughing at the twins' antics. A few regulars called it the most entertaining morning rush The Daily Grind had ever seen.

Wilma climbed into the driver's seat, rolled down the window, and leaned out to face Y/N. "So, Festival of Lights," she began, eyes gleaming like she was about to commit a crime.

I groaned. "Here we go."

"I had a thought," Wilma continued, unbothered. "Not only will I be using my winning personality—" she gestured dramatically to herself— "but now, I've got your face. Your fame."

I blinked at her. "You're criminal."

Wilma smirked like the cat that ate the canary. "The internet's already in love with you. Why not use it?"

Before I could argue, Wilma lowered her voice conspiratorially. "But our real secret weapon this year? You."

I frowned, leaning up straight off her car. "What do you mean, me?"

"I'm giving you the honor of creating this year's star pastry."

I stared at her. "Wait… what? You? Handing me the star pastry? What are you, dying?"

Wilma waved me off. "Don't be dramatic. I have 100% faith in you. This is your café too, remember? We're partners. Besides…” She cast a dark glare at the twins in the rearview mirror. "After last year's fiasco, I don't trust those two with anything more complicated than napkins."

My curiosity flared. "What happened last year?"

"They stole my recipe," Wilma said bitterly. "Revealed it the day after the festival. We lost. Miserably."

The twins cackled in unison from the backseat.

I shook my head, half-amused, half-shocked. "Wilma, I don't know the first thing about baking. You're the baker."

Wilma's smirk softened into something steadier. "You've got this. I'll handle everything else. Take the next three days off and focus on creating something new. No distractions. Just you and the kitchen."

I folded my arms, trying not to look touched. "You sure about this?"

"Positive," Wilma said. "You've got instincts. Trust them."

She revved the minivan, grinning. "Oh, and for inspiration, think back to our greatest hits: the Taylortot Swift — those cinnamon sugar bites that sold out in twenty minutes. The Leo DiCappuccino — still our best seasonal latte. And who could forget the Keanu Re-doughs? Customers still beg for those rolls."

I groaned. "Those names were crimes."

"Crimes that paid the bills," Wilma shot back, winking before pulling away.

I stood in the quiet lot as the minivan disappeared down the block, the twins' voices fading into the night. I thought of the month behind me — the dull ache, the chaos, the viral kiss looping online. I exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping.

Then, without meaning to, I whispered to myself: "I earned a burrito."

And with that, I climbed into my car, the thought of greasy foil-wrapped salvation pulling me home.

The set of Wednesday was a machine that never slept. The air hummed with the drone of generators and the hiss of fog machines, the gothic arches and shadowed corridors so carefully dressed that sometimes Jenna forgot she wasn't in Nevermore itself. Crew members moved like ghosts in headsets, carrying cables and props, their chatter blending with the echo of Tim Burton's voice.

"Cut! Back to one!" he called, his words slicing clean through the noise. There was always a peculiar rhythm in the way he spoke — half lullaby, half command.

Jenna held herself steady, rolling her shoulders, stepping back into Wednesday's skin like it was armor. She had learned how to hold that stillness Tim loved, how to keep her gaze pinned sharp and unsettling, but the weight of repetition pressed down on her. Every new task wore at her bones.

By the time she was waved toward her chair, the costume collar felt like it was strangling her. She sank down with a sigh, shoulders aching, lips dry. Someone had left a coffee at her side. She reached for it automatically, desperate for the bitter warmth.

One sip. And she stopped.

Her lips curled into the faintest smile, unguarded, as she whispered without thinking, "Y/N, you got my order wrong."

The words slipped out soft, private — except she wasn't alone.

The intern standing in front of her — thin, jittery, clutching two Dunkin' carriers like lifelines — went rigid. His eyes widened. "S-sorry, Miss Ortega! I thought you said caramel macchiato?"

Jenna blinked, looking down at the cup in her hand. "This isn't a caramel macchiato," she said gently. "It's a latte."

Ernest paled. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I'll fix it—I'll run back out right now—"

She shook her head quickly, cutting him off with a small smile. "No, it's fine. Really. I'm just… used to my partner getting my coffee."

The word "partner " slipped out softly, lingering in the air.

Ernest let out a shaky breath, still flustered but visibly relieved she wasn't upset. "O-okay. Still, I'll learn it. If it helps. I mean—" He glanced nervously toward the director's chair, lowering his voice. "Everyone here works too hard. And, uh… Mr. Burton can be… a lot."

That pulled a genuine laugh out of her, the kind that cracked through exhaustion like sunlight. "You're right about that. Thank you, Ernest. I'd like that."

He nodded quickly, adjusting the trays of Dunkin's bulk "bucket coffee" before hurrying off to distribute them among the crew.

Jenna lingered on the moment a little longer than she should've, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. Y/N would have rolled their eyes at the foam heart, muttering some deadpan quip that would make her laugh until her stomach hurt. She hadn't realized how much she missed even that.

Her phone buzzed in her lap, jolting her. Not Y/N. Her manager.

She answered anyway, tucking herself into a shadowed corner of the set where makeup artists hovered with powder brushes and grips adjusted lights.

The voice on the other end was brisk, smooth as glass. "Jenna, we need to talk about next month's calendar. You've been requested for a Vanity Fair shoot. Big spread. I know you're locked on Wednesday right now, but visibility matters. We can't let momentum slip."

Jenna pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaustion prickling behind her eyes. "Send me the details."

"And Berlinale's festival. A script reading panel — very high-profile. I'd push for it, even if it means travel."

She glanced down at her phone screen, Y/N's name glowing faintly just beneath the call banner. The weight in her chest doubled. "I'll… look at it."

The line went quiet for a beat, then her manager's voice softened, different from its usual clipped rhythm. "Jenna… you sound off. Is everything okay?"

She hesitated, her thumb brushing Y/N's name on the screen. For a heartbeat, she let herself drift back to the airport, the crush of noise fading as she leaned in, the taste of coffee and mint on her lips, the world collapsing into that one perfect kiss.

She blinked herself back. "I'm fine," she murmured. Then, quieter: "Just… homesick."

On the other end, Michael hummed in understanding. He'd only been with her two years, still new compared to others on her team, but he wasn't pushy like some. Reliable, organized, but human first — and Jenna appreciated that more than she could say.

"Well," Michael said gently, "if you need an ear, I've got two. And if you need a break, I can arrange it in a second. You don't have to grind yourself down."

A small smile tugged at her lips. Michael was the one who'd first mentioned The Daily Grind to her, knowing she preferred tucked-away places over flashy hotspots. He'd gotten her. Or at least, tried to.

"Thanks," she said softly. "I'll keep that noted. And I'll let you know."

"Good," he replied, back to brisk warmth. "We'll handle the rest later. You just get through today."

The line clicked off, leaving Jenna with the faintest sense of relief.

She stared at the phone, thumb hovering over Y/N's contact. Just one text. One photo. Something to remind herself that the connection wasn't slipping through her fingers.

But the guilt gnawed. She was so tired. So drained. And Y/N was too. What if reaching out felt like asking too much?

Tim's voice thundered across the cavernous set. "Quiet! Back to the top!"

The moment was gone. She slid her phone back into her pocket, the hollow ache settling deeper. Work first. Always work first.

Still, in the back of her mind, she was already composing the words she wanted to send — and the ache sharpened, because she knew exactly whose laugh she wanted to hear when she finally pressed send.

The trailer hummed with leftover silence after a day that felt twice its length. Jenna sank into the narrow couch, her posture finally slipping now that no cameras were rolling. Her thumb hovered over her phone, the text box already open. One photo. One line. That was all it would take to bridge the miles. But the thought of pressing send felt heavier than it should — as if telling Y/N I miss you would drain what little she had left.

She rubbed at her eyes, exhaustion burning hot and sharp.

A knock rattled the door. Jenna sighed, already expecting Will or Greg. "Yeah, come in."

The door swung open, and it wasn't them.

Sophia Reyes filled the doorway, tall and graceful in the yellow wash of the lot lights, her hair falling in practiced waves. Even at the end of a brutal day, she looked as if she'd stepped out of a photoshoot. She laughed lightly, slipping inside before Jenna could think to stop her.

"Oh—Sophia." Jenna straightened, offering a tired smile. "Sorry, thought you were my bodyguards."

Sophia waved a hand with effortless charm. "I'll take the comparison. Though I doubt I could ever manage Will's scowl. Greg's chatter, maybe, but not that."

Jenna chuckled under her breath, distracted. Her phone still lay on the cushion beside her, face down, Y/N's name glowing faintly through the case. She didn't notice Sophia's eyes catch it — linger on it.

"You look wrecked," Sophia said smoothly, her gaze flicking around the trailer like she was cataloguing it. The untouched tea on the counter. The rumpled jacket was draped over a chair. The faint glow of the phone. "Why don't you let me take you to dinner? Somewhere quiet. No scripts, no Tim Burton whisper-yelling about gothic shadows. Just food."

The offer was kind, but Jenna's chest tugged elsewhere. Toward the phone. Toward Y/N. She hesitated, then shook her head with a tired smile. "I'm… really tired, Sophia. I just—"

Sophia followed the tilt of her gaze to the couch cushion. Her lips curved knowingly, like she'd already read Jenna's mind. "You want to hear your lover, don't you?"

Jenna's breath caught. She gave a nervous laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. "That obvious, huh?" She sighed, shoulders dropping. "I just… I miss her. Her voice. Even the stupid jokes. God, I wish she were here."

Sophia eased down beside her, not too close, her hand brushing Jenna's back in a gesture that looked casual, supportive. Her voice lowered, velvet-smooth. "I understand. But she’s miles away, and busy, isn't she? You'll talk later. You know she can't resist you either. Don't worry about her."

The words slipped in soft as silk, but they left an ache behind. Busy. Too tired. Exactly the fears Jenna had been trying to bury. She nodded, forcing a smile, though it wobbled at the edges.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint hum of the trailer's air unit. Sophia seemed perfectly content to let it hang — her presence warm, poised, and steady. Comforting on the surface, yet something about it pressed in too close, blurring the line between kindness and intrusion.

Another knock broke the quiet. Will's steady baritone: "Miss Ortega, we're ready to take you to the hotel."

Relief rose like a tide. Jenna stood, slipping her phone into her pocket. "I've got to go," she said, offering Sophia a grateful smile. "But… thank you. I appreciate you keeping my mind off Y/N." She meant it, though the words felt different in Sophia's ears than they did in her own mouth.

Sophia tucked a glossy curl behind her ear, her poise flawless. "Of course, Jenna. I'm always here for you."

They stepped out together, parting at the base of the trailer steps. Will and Greg flanked Jenna, their steady presence solid and grounding as they led her toward the waiting hotel car. Sophia drifted toward her own sleek vehicle, her shadow stretching long under the lot lights — elegant, patient, unreadable.

The ride to the hotel was quiet, with Will and Greg a steady wall of presence in the front seat. Jenna leaned her forehead against the glass, watching city lights smear into blurred streaks, fatigue tugging heavily at her bones. Her phone buzzed in her hand, Y/N's name glowing like a lifeline she hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath for.

She hasn't typed yet. Not until she was back in her room — door locked, sneakers kicked off, silence settling in like a weighted blanket. Then she snapped a photo: her script and a tower of books scattered across the carpet, and on top of it all, Y/N's hoodie, crumpled like it had survived a war. She hit send without a caption.

The reply came fast. A photo of Mr. Noodles, Y/N squashing his face, smug as ever, burrito meat clinging to his whiskers like trophies of war. The caption: His greed sickens me.

Jenna's laugh cracked out before she could stop it, sharp and breathless in the empty hotel room. 

Jenna laughed out loud, quick and sharp, the sound bouncing off the empty hotel walls. She typed back: #FreeTheNoodle. He was just checking if your burrito was poisoned. He's too handsome to be guilty.

Her phone lit again — Y/N calling.

"Really?" Y/N's voice came through, half stern, half laughing. "You're siding with the charming devil who stole my dinner?"

"Obviously," Jenna quipped, rolling onto her side and tucking into the pillow. "He's dashing. And I needed to confirm your burrito wasn't poisoned. Occupational hazard."

Y/N groaned theatrically. "Unbelievable. And here I thought you were on my side."

Jenna smirked into the receiver, voice soft with affection. "Always. But Noodles is irresistible."

There was a beat of silence — the kind that wasn't empty, but warm — before Y/N sighed, the edge of her dramatics giving way. "Well, I'll forgive you. Because my day was crazier."

Jenna laughed, rolling onto her side so the phone framed her like she was curled in bed right beside Y/N. "Always a competition with you."

"Always," Y/N shot back without hesitation.

Her smirk softened into something fond as she tucked her cheek into the pillow. "Okay then, tell me. What could possibly have happened to make your day crazier than mine?"

Y/N tipped her head back with a groan. "Festival prep."

"Festival? What festival?" Jenna teased, her brows arching.

"The Festival of Lights."

"Festival of… lights?" she echoed, amused. "That sounds like something out of a Hallmark movie."

Y/N blinked at her. "Wait. You've seriously never heard of it?"

Jenna shook her head, lips quirking. "Clearly not. Enlighten me."

That was all it took. Y/N leaned a little closer, her voice gaining warmth as she explained. "It's this annual thing our district puts on — still pretty new, only been running a few years. They shut down the whole market strip, and every restaurant and café competes to outdo each other. Pastries, signature drinks, full-on dishes — you name it. Customers gorge themselves silly, judges crown a winner. It's a big deal for business, gets the community buzzing, and puts places on the map."

Jenna's eyes widened, her smile breaking through the exhaustion. "You're telling me there's a whole festival where people basically fight to the death over pastries?"

"Basically," Y/N deadpanned.

"Sounds… amazing." Jenna grinned, propping her chin on her hand. "And competitive."

"Oh, it's bloodsport," Y/N deadpanned. "The Copper Ladle — this bougie little bistro down the block — wins every damn year. They strut around like they're untouchable. Wilma's been plotting their downfall like she's staging a coup."

Jenna laughed, her eyes lighting despite the fatigue dragging at her face. "So basically… food gladiators."

"Exactly." Y/N jabbed a finger at the camera. "And Wilma's drafted me into the arena. Apparently, my 'fame' is part of the strategy."

Jenna tilted her head, amused. "Okay, wait — what's a star pastry?" Y/N rolled her eyes, though her mouth betrayed her with a curve. "Every year we make one ridiculous, limited-run treat named after some celebrity or pop culture icon. Punny, flashy, always borderline criminal. Customers lose their minds over it. We've had the Taylor Swifterroll — cinnamon roll with espresso glaze that sold out in minutes. The Brie Larson Tart — brie, caramelized onion, balsamic drizzle. And my personal shame-slash-favorite: the Benedict Crumblebatch. Don't ask."

Jenna clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, her shoulders shaking. "Oh my god. That's terrible."

"Terrible genius," Y/N corrected smugly.

"Crimes against humanity," Jenna countered, still laughing.

"Crimes that paid rent," Y/N shot back.

Y/N sighed dramatically. "And now I'm in charge of this year's. Which means I'm doomed. I'm gonna burn it."

"You? Burn something?" Jenna teased, arching a brow, her lips quirking.

"Yes!" Y/N shot back. "Baking is chemistry, and you know I hate chemistry. If it explodes, I'll take credit. IsIs itit edible? That's Caleb. My older brother's actually a shockingly good baker — not that he brags about it. He'll just stand there all smug while the rest of us struggle."

Jenna chuckled, warmth curling in her chest. She could hear the fondness under Y/N's grumble, the way family always snuck into their tone even when they pretended to be annoyed.

The laughter between them softened, stretching out, fading into something quieter. A silence that hummed heavy and warm across the miles — not awkward, just complete with everything they hadn't said in weeks.

Jenna shifted on her pillow, thumb brushing the corner of the phone screen like she could reach through it. Her voice dropped, tender and certain.

"I missed you."

Y/N swallowed hard, nodding at the camera. "Yeah. I missed you, too."

Jenna exhaled like she'd been holding it in for weeks, her lips pressing tight before the words slipped out in a rush. "I'm sorry for being so busy. I know I've been hard to reach—"

"Don't," Y/N cut in softly. "I thought I was the clingy one."

Jenna blinked, then laughed — not mocking, but sharp with relief, like air bursting out of a balloon.

Y/N winced, hand to their chest. "Okay, ouch."

"No, no!" Jenna rushed, shaking her head, her laughter curling into something tender. "Not at you. Just—I was thinking the same thing. That I was needy. That I'd bother you if I texted too much."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was alive, warm, and humming; their screens cast faint halos over their faces. Both of them are carrying the same fear. Both of them were too careful with love they'd been aching to give freely.

"Guess we're idiots," Y/N murmured at last, a small smile tugging at their lips.

"Guess so," Jenna whispered, her smile breaking tired and sweet, her eyes shining even through the exhaustion.

They lingered, the world narrowing to the glow of their phones — as if staring long enough might collapse the miles between them. Just breathing each other in through the screen until the ache softened, gentled into something steadier. Something safe.

Then Y/N giggled suddenly, ducking their head, curls falling forward. "Oh… um, you remember our first kiss?"

Jenna's lips curved instantly, dreamy, a hum slipping from her chest like a secret. "How could I forget?"

Y/N's blush was obvious even through the grainy camera, their gaze flicking away before finding her again. "Good. Because it's kind of burned into me. The way you leaned in, the way the noise around us just—" They waved a hand, searching for words. "—disappeared. Like it was only you. Only us."

Jenna's chest tightened, breath catching as her voice dropped low and sure. "It was only us."

Y/N groaned softly, covering their face with one hand. "Ugh, I sound pathetic."

Jenna shook her head, her smile so soft it could've melted glass. "You sound perfect."

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Just two people, miles apart, staring through tiny screens like they could somehow fall into each other, hearts thrumming in sync across the distance.

"It's been two months," Y/N admitted, voice catching somewhere between nervous and resigned. "And not only did it get photographed, but also badly recorded. And now it's… trending. Everywhere. Instagram, especially. People are losing their minds."

Jenna froze, eyes widening. She blinked at the screen like she couldn't quite process it. "Wait. What?"

Y/N grimaced, swiping across their phone before flipping it toward the camera. "Yeah. Apparently, I'm a mystery lover now. Hashtag FindMysteryLover. It's a whole thing."

Jenna scrambled for her own phone, her fingers suddenly clumsy with disbelief. She pulled up Instagram, and the world seemed to tilt beneath her. The tags were everywhere — #FindMysteryLover, #WhoAreThey, #AirportKiss. Photos of their kiss from every possible angle. Grainy clips of the forehead touch. Comments spiraling like wildfire — people dissecting outfits, zooming in on hair strands, inventing theories in all caps.

Her chest tightened as the screen lit up with strangers dissecting a moment that had felt sacred. Holy. Just theirs.

Her stomach dropped, her voice barely making it out. "Oh my god." The words trembled between awe and fear.

Y/N didn't look away, even as their phone lowered. In their eyes, there was apology, yes, but threaded with something steadier — a quiet acceptance, as if they'd already made peace with being seen.

"Yeah," they murmured, gaze locked on hers through the pixelated glow. "Welcome to our circus."

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Summary: In the bustling streets of Hollywood, The Daily Grind café offers solace to those seeking peace—famous or not. Y/N, co-owner of the cozy shop, wasn't expecting a masked Jenna Ortega, a regular, hiding in plain sight. Is it just you, or did the spilled sugar not turn out to be the only thing that sweetened your day?

Word Count: 1.1k

The smell of espresso hit me like a warm hug the second I opened the door to The Daily Grind. We'd only been open for three weeks, but the place already felt like my second home. Wilma, my best friend and now business partner, had really nailed it with the cozy vibe— mix of warm lighting and cushy chairs that practically begged you to sit down and spill your deepest secrets into a cup of coffee. We were doing pretty well for ourselves. A lot of it had to do with how we ran things. We prided ourselves on being a low-key spot where even the biggesr stars could come in and out without anyone batting an eye. No paparazzi, No instagram Stans, just people famous—or not trying to enjoy their coffee.

We've had a few people challenge our "No photos, videos, or interrupting other customers of any caliber." rule—a sign clearly displayed at the top of the menu and outside the café. The moment a camera was raised, we'd calmly walk over and politely ask them to leave. If that didn't work, we had a quiet agreement with the boutique's security guard next door—one glare from him, and they usually scurried off. Our café was a sanctuary, and no one would ruin that for our customers. After all, our motto was "We serve coffee, not fame. Take a sip." Today had been like any other day: customers trickling in, ordering their usual, and leaving with smiles. But something was different tonight. Maybe it was the way the door chimed a little softer than usual or the quick sound of shuffling footsteps. I didn't look up right away, as I was too busy balancing a stack of to-go cups while trying not to trip over that corner of the rug that always seemed to curl up, which, let's be honest, was my usual struggle. But I felt it—a shift in the atmosphere. Someone was trying way too hard not to be noticed. I peeked over my shoulder just in time to catch a figure in a hoodie, sunglasses, and a face mask slipping into the booth in the back corner.

I chuckled lightly, nearly knocking over the cups I had stacked. Of course, someone who tried not to stand out only made them stand out more. But hey, this was Hollywood; people like to stay incognito. I walked up beside Wilma as she finished giving a customer their order. She was also watching the spectacle; Wilma leaned in, wiping her hands on a towel. "That hoodie's been here three times this week. Any hunch who it could be?" We, of course, leave celebrities alone here, but we like to talk between ourselves to try and figure out who it is. I shake my head. "No, but they're definitely someone. No one hides like that unless they're trying not to be recognized." Wilma smirked. "Duh—You can tell by how they keep looking over their shoulder." Our eyes met, and she gave me a knowing look. Her smirk grew into a giant grin. "Your turn, mascot," she said, tossing her towel over her shoulder as she walked away. I blinked, confused. "Wait, what? What is that supposed to mean?" She stopped briefly. "Maybe you'll have better luck talking to them. After all, you are the people's favorite barista and a great icebreaker. She looks anxious, so work your little charisma magic." And with that, she disappeared into the back, leaving me staring at the mysterious figure, wondering how I'd gotten roped into this.

As I walked over, I flipped to a new page in my notepad and repeated my mantra when serving customers: Treat everyone the same, whether they're the guy from down the street or some A-lister hiding from the world. No fuss, no fanfare. I tried to stay calm not to scare them out of the café. There was no need to be weird or awkward about it I'm just going to—oh. As I slid up to the table, I managed to knock over the sugar container. Smooth, Y/N. Real smooth. With a quick glance, I crouched down to pick it up, hoping I hadn't drawn attention to either of us. When I stood back up, the figure in the hoodie had their head down, but I could feel them watching me. Great, now I spooked them. "Uh, sorry about that," I chuckled nervously, brushing the sugar off my apron. "That usually only happens on Wednesdays, more than I'd like to admit." A soft giggle escaped from under the mask. Before I could attempt to piece the giggle to a voice she pulled down her mask just enough for me to see her face.

Jenna Ortega.

I blinked, not sure why my brain of all times decided to short-circuit now.

Jenna—freakin'—Ortega was sitting in my café, laughing at my stupid joke.

| -Wednesday Addams x Reader- |

Summary: A fierce fencing duel with Wednesday Addams turns rivalry into fascination. As blades clash, sharp wit and reckless defiance ignite curiosity and desire, blurring the line between enemies and something deeper. Victory is only the beginning, as an unconventional confession leads to an unexpected challenge of hearts.

Word Count: 1.6k

Somewhere along the way, this rivalry had become something else. It was supposed to be simple—an exchange of sharp words, a competition that never tipped past the edge of control. But the moment you challenged Wednesday Addams to a duel, that line blurred. Yoko had leaned against your desk, fangs glinting in the dim light of your dorm, entirely too smug for someone offering terrible advice. "If you want to impress Wednesday, do it in a way she'll actually respect." You had raised a brow. "By fighting her?" "By beating her," Yoko corrected. "Or at least making her work for it. She doesn't care about compliments—she cares about opposition. If you challenge her and hold your own, she'll be thinking about you for days." It made a disturbing amount of sense. But standing here now, on the polished fencing mat beneath the cold hum of the gymnasium lights, you were starting to think this was a terrible idea. Wednesday stood across from you, rapier poised, dark eyes calculating even through the mesh of her mask. There was no hesitation in her stance or doubt in how she held her blade. She had already measured you and begun dismantling your technique before the duel started. She wasn't wondering if she would win. She was determining how long it would take. Still, you lifted your blade. If she wanted to crush you, she'd have to earn it. The match began.

Blades clashed, the sharp ring of metal cutting through the still air. Wednesday fought like she knew the outcome before it arrived—every strike designed to lure you into a mistake, every shift of her weight a silent command you refused to follow. But you weren't a fool. You had studied her just as much as she had studied you. She favored control. Precision. Restraint. So you gave her chaos. A feint where there shouldn't be one. A reckless advance when caution would have been wiser. She adapted quickly—of course she did—but for a fleeting moment, you could see it. The way her fingers tightened around the hilt of her rapier. The sharp flicker of something electric in her expression. Amusement. Excitement. She was enjoying this. It nearly made you hesitate. And that, of course, was precisely when she struck. One misstep. One fraction of a second where she predicted your movement before you did. She turned the momentum against you in a single, fluid motion, her rapier slipping past your defenses like this had been inevitable all along. The strike's sting barely registered—what did was the sudden, breathless closeness. Her blade rested against your side, not pressing, just lingering, deliberate, and absolute. Victory. She had won. But the way she was looking at you? It felt like something else entirely. You yanked off your mask, exhaling hard. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, but Wednesday? She wasn't even out of breath. Her expression remained unreadable, but her gaze was too heavy and lingering like she was still assessing you. As if she were deciding something. And then—just as quickly as she had dismantled you on the mat—she turned and walked away. Leaving you standing there, gripping your rapier like you could still salvage something from the wreckage.

From the sidelines, Yoko let out a low whistle. "Well. That wasn't a total disaster." You shot her a glare, still trying to catch your breath. "I lost." "Yeah, but she looked at you like a person instead of an obstacle. That's progress." You opened your mouth—then closed it. Because she wasn't wrong. And that was exactly what scared you.

Wednesday sat at her desk, fingers resting idly against the worn spine of a book she hadn't turned a page of in twenty minutes. Thing tapped against the desk impatiently as if demanding an answer to a question neither of them had asked. Wednesday ignored him. Her mind was still elsewhere. Still turning over every second of the duel—how you fought without discipline but made up for it in instinct and unpredictability. The way you had dared to challenge her at all. You had been reckless. Unrefined. And absolutely fascinating.

Enid sprawled across her bed, finally noticed the silence. "Okay, you're thinking too hard. What's up?" Wednesday lifted a brow. "I think hard all the time." Enid rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but this is different. You're brooding." Thing tapped again. Wednesday exhaled, slow, and measured. "They fought well," she admitted. "Poorly executed but undeniably persistent." She tapped her fingers once against the desk, almost thoughtful. "They do not know when to surrender." Thing slammed a hand against the wood. Enid blinked. Then—her face split into a knowing grin. "Oh. Ohhh." Wednesday frowned. "What?" "You like them." The accusation was made Wednesday, but only for a fraction of a second. She closed her book with a soft snap. "That is a drastic oversimplification."

Enid cackled. "Oh my god, you totally do." Things dramatically flopped onto his back. Wednesday was inhaled, slow, and patient as if speaking to children. "I merely find them… intriguing." She considered it for a moment longer, tilting her head. "I suppose I'll ask them out." Enid choked. Thing threw himself off the desk. Wednesday lifted a brow, watching them flail in disbelief. "You're both being ridiculous." Enid pointed an accusatory finger at her. "You—Wednesday—you just said that like you were deciding to conduct a science experiment!" Wednesday simply folded her hands over her lap. "Perhaps I am." Thing slammed the floor in frustration in an attempt to face-palm. Enid groaned. "Oh my god. This is the worst enemies-to-lovers I've ever seen." But Wednesday ignored them both. Because for the first time in a long time—She was curious. And that? That was dangerous. You should have expected it. Really, you should have.

But when Addams appeared at your dorm door on Wednesday at exactly 9:06 PM, rapping her knuckles against the wood with the precision that suggested she had calculated the most effective knocking pattern for optimal response time—yeah, you hadn't expected that. You stared at her, still gripping the door handle, brain scrambling to catch up. "…Addams?"

Wednesday lifted her chin slightly, her expression unreadable except for the sharp flicker of something in her dark eyes—like she was studying you, assessing how best to deliver a blow. "I have decided something," she said, with no preamble. You blinked. "Um. Okay?" Thing appeared on your desk, signing to warn you of the incoming disaster. Wednesday barely acknowledged him. "I've given the matter appropriate consideration," she continued, voice flat, clinical-like she was delivering a scientific thesis instead of… whatever this was. "And I've come to a conclusion." A pause. A long pause. "…Are you gonna tell me, or are we standing here until the next century?" She didn't even blink. "We should go on a date." The words hit like a punch to the sternum. You blinked again. Once. Twice. Brain buffering. "… I'm sorry, what?" Wednesday tilted her head slightly as if contemplating the possibility that you had lost all cognitive function. "A date," she repeated, unaffected. "A courtship. An outing for mutual observation and analysis, culminating in the determination of compatibility." Your jaw dropped. "Did you just—did you just ask me out like it was a lab report?" "I fail to see how else one would ask someone out." You ran a hand down your face, your brain struggling to keep up with reality.

Wednesday Addams. Asking you on a date. You squinted at her, trying to read between the lines. "Wait. Is this another mind game? Are you trying to humiliate me in some slow-burn, Addams-style revenge plot?" Wednesday blinked, expression as unreadable as ever, but her voice dipped just slightly—lower, quieter. "I do not waste time on things that do not interest me." Your stomach did something that felt dangerously close to flipping. And then—just like that—you understood. The fencing match. The scrutiny. How she had studied you was like an enigma that required solving, a puzzle that was suddenly worth solving. Wednesday didn't just challenge people. She tested them. And somehow—you had passed. You exhaled, still struggling to process the reality of your life choices leading up to this moment. "Okay, um. First, that's the creepiest way anyone's ever asked me out." Wednesday hummed, pleased. "Good." "Second of all—are you seriously interested in me?" Her dark eyes didn't waver. "I would not waste my time otherwise." …Okay. That was probably the closest thing to a confession you would ever get. You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Fine. Where exactly would we be going if we go on a date?" Wednesday clasped her hands behind her back, her posture almost too composed, as if she had already anticipated the question. "There is a cemetery just outside Jericho that dates back to the early 1800s," she said with zero hesitation. "They host midnight burials for reenactment purposes. I believe it would be both informative and engaging." You stared. Thing threw himself off your desk. "… You're taking me to a funeral?" "A simulated funeral," she corrected. "There will be organ music." You dragged a hand down your face, questioning every decision that led you here. "…You know what? Fine. Let's do it." Wednesday's eyes glinted, satisfied. "I knew you would say yes." Oh god, what had you just agreed to?

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Summary: The six months starts. Distance lingers, the silence heavier than you expected. You both don’t name what this is—because naming it means admitting something has changed. Jenna calls miles away at the crack of dawn, wearing your favorite hoodie, like she’s afraid of what the quiet might say. And you don’t know if time will keep you both together—or pull you apart.

Word Count: 5.4k

The days leading up to her departure blurred together, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I tried to hold onto them. I wasn't counting down in dread—not exactly—but every moment felt sharper, more defined like I was imprinting them into my memory so I could replay them later when the silence got too loud. Jenna must have felt it, too. She never said it outright, but she didn't have to. It was in the way she lingered a little longer when I walked her to her door, her fingers curling around my wrist like she wasn't ready to let go just yet—in the way she caught me staring and didn't call me out on it, just met my gaze with something unreadable before shifting closer. On the way, she reached for my hand absentmindedly—across café tables, on the subway, while wandering through the city streets—like it was second nature. There were dates—real ones, not just stolen moments disguised as friendship. We returned to the fall festival before the season changed, browsed through holiday markets as Christmas lights flickered in shop windows, and stayed up too late watching old horror movies in her apartment while the city outside lay wrapped in moonlight. She kissed me in the quiet moments when the world felt like it had shrunk down to just the two of us—soft, unhurried kisses that carried the weight of something neither of us wanted to name. Because naming it would mean admitting that, soon, she'd be gone. And then, the day arrived. I told myself I wouldn't make it harder than it had to be. I wouldn't make it dramatic. But as I gripped the steering wheel, sneaking glances at Jenna in the passenger seat, I knew there was no way to prevent this from sinking in. She was leaving. And even if it wasn't forever, even if it wasn't goodbye, it still felt like something between us was stretching into an unknown space neither of us could define.

Jenna sat with her hands tucked into the sleeves of my hoodie—her new favorite thing to steal, apparently—legs pulled up slightly onto the seat. It was oversized on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the fabric bunched around her frame like a second skin. The scent of my detergent, my warmth, still lingered on it, but she wore it like it was hers—like she hadn't straight-up claimed it the moment I let my guard down. The car was filled with the soft hum of music, something low and slow that neither of us had the heart to change. Outside, the city passed in hazy smears of neon and streetlights, but Jenna wasn't paying attention. Her fingers tapped against her knee, her eyes flickering over the familiar streets, the buildings, and the people like she was trying to memorize them before they slipped away from her view. Or maybe—just maybe—she was trying to memorize this. Us. Here. Now. I tightened my grip on the wheel, focusing on the road even as my chest tightened with something I didn't have a name for. I could feel the weight of time pressing in on us, the reality of this being our last drive together before she left. Before, everything shifted into phone calls, text messages, and missing moments instead of making them. She sighed quietly, sinking deeper into my hoodie, pulling the sleeves over her fingers as she could disappear inside them. "I hate this part." I didn't have to ask what she meant. I swallowed, forcing a smirk even though my throat felt tight. "Hate saying goodbye, or hate the part where you steal my clothes and then leave me here to suffer?" Jenna rolled her eyes but didn't fight the way the corner of her mouth twitched. "You act like I don't look better in your hoodie." I glanced at her, noticing how she was practically drowning in it. The hood pulled up just enough to shadow her face. And yeah—she did. She really did. "Not the point," I muttered, shifting gears as I pulled onto the highway. Jenna hummed, unconvinced, resting her chin against the collar of the hoodie like she knew what she was doing to me. Like she knew I wasn't mad about it at all. But I didn't press it. Because if she wanted to take a piece of me with her—something to hold onto while we were apart—I wasn't about to stop her.

The hum of the engine filled the spaces where words wouldn't come, where the weight of what was left unsaid settled in the air like fog. Jenna kept her eyes on the passing scenery, but I could tell she wasn't really seeing it. She was somewhere else. Maybe in the weeks leading up to this moment—each date, each stolen glance, each whispered promise wrapped in something fragile, something neither of us wanted to break. Maybe she was already ahead of us—six months into the future, where the distance had settled between us like an ocean we'd have to learn to swim through. I didn't want to think about that. Instead, I focused on now. On her curled up in my hoodie, stealing warmth from something that would outlast this moment. On the way, her fingers traced absentminded patterns against her knee as if she could distract herself from the inevitable. On the way, she shifted slightly closer without really touching me, her presence filling the car in a way that made my chest ache. My grip on the wheel shifted. "You still excited?" She hesitated before answering, and that alone told me everything. "Yeah," she said finally, but it was softer than I expected. Less sure. "I mean, I've been looking forward to this for so long, but… I don't know. It just feels different now." I glanced at her, catching the way she chewed at her lip, her gaze flickering to me before shifting back to the window. "You mean because of—?" I gestured vaguely between us because saying it out loud made it feel too real, too raw. Jenna let out a quiet laugh, but there was no amusement in it. "Yeah. Because of that." I nodded, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Me too." She turned to me fully then, one hand pulling at the sleeve of my hoodie, twisting the fabric between her fingers like she was debating something. And then, just as I was about to ask what was on her mind, she reached out, letting her hand settle lightly over mine where it rested on the gearshift. I stilled. Her touch was soft, barely there, but the impact was immediate—like all the air in the car had shifted as the weight of the moment had finally landed between us. "I don't want to go," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, I do. But I don't." I swallowed around the lump in my throat, willing my voice to stay steady. "I don't want you to go either. But you have to." She sighed, her thumb brushing absently over my knuckles. "I know." Silence stretched between us again, but it wasn't heavy. It was something else—something unspoken, something that filled the car with all the things we wanted to say but didn't know how to. When we finally pulled into the airport parking lot, neither of us moved right away. Jenna stared straight ahead, shoulders tensing slightly as she let out a breath. "This is the part where we pretend it's not a big deal, right?" I huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah. I guess so." But it was a big deal. And we both knew it.

The walk through the terminal was slow, stretched by the weight of each step. I carried her bag even though she insisted she could handle it, and she let me, which felt like its own kind of goodbye. We stopped just before security. This was it. Jenna shifted on her feet, looking at me with something unreadable in her expression. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't sure what she was thinking. "You're gonna be okay, right?" she asked again, like she needed the reassurance like she needed to hear it one last time. I let out a slow breath, forcing a small smile. "I should be asking you that." Her lips quirked, but her eyes stayed serious. "You should. But you won't." I shook my head. "Nope." She exhaled sharply, her hands balling into the sleeves of my hoodie. "This sucks." "Yeah," I agreed, voice softer now. "It does." And then, without warning, she grabbed the front of my jacket and pulled me in. The kiss was immediate—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just her and me and the weight of everything we couldn't put into words. It wasn't soft. It wasn't tentative. It was something else entirely—something desperate, something that tasted like goodbye and promise all at once. Her fingers curled into the fabric, pulling me closer like she could press me into her skin like she could take me with her. And I let her, let myself sink into it, let myself feel everything I'd been trying to ignore since the moment she told me she was leaving. When she pulled back, she didn't go far. Forehead resting against mine, breath mingling in the space between us, she whispered, "I'll call you when I land." I nodded, throat tight. "I'll be waiting." Her fingers lingered for a second longer before she finally, finally stepped back. And then, with one last glance—one last moment where the entire world narrowed down to just the two of us—she turned and walked toward the gate. I stood there long after she disappeared through security, watching the space she had just occupied, feeling the weight of her absence settle into my chest. Six months. I could wait. I would wait.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made everything feel heavier than it should've, stretching across the empty space like a weighted blanket I hadn't asked for. The door clicked shut behind me, locking me into the quiet, and for a moment, I just stood there, keys still in my hand, staring at the dimly lit kitchen like it might have some sort of answer for me. Mr. Noodles had other plans. There was a soft thump, then another, and before I could react, the small, fluffy traitor leaped onto the kitchen counter, tail flicking as he blinked up at me like he knew something was off. He could tell the apartment wasn't supposed to feel this empty. I sighed, dropping my keys into the dish by the door before walking over and running a hand through his fur. "It's just you and me now, buddy." Mr. Noodles let out a soft purr, pressing into my touch, and for a second, I let myself sink into the familiar rhythm—the simple comfort of something still being the same. But the quiet still settled in. I moved through the motions of dinner without really thinking. I popped a frozen meal into the microwave. I listened to the hum as it spun, the artificial glow from the appliance making the kitchen feel even more empty. I grabbed a fork, took the tray, and made my way to the couch, collapsing into the cushions like I could sink into them. Remote in hand, I scrolled aimlessly, looking for something to fill the silence. But nothing looked right. Nothing felt right. Not when— I froze. The cursor had landed on a show—our show—the one we had binged together, the one that had started as background noise but turned into something else entirely. My thumb hovered over the play button, and my heart hammered in my chest. And then, like a cruel trick of the mind, the memory hit.

The apartment had been warm that night, filled with the low flicker of the TV and the sound of Jenna's soft laughter as she curled up beside me, tucked comfortably into my side as if she belonged there. Mr. Noodles had claimed the armrest, his tiny body rising and falling in time with his steady purrs. The show played on, but neither of us was paying attention anymore. Not when Jenna had decided, for whatever reason, to lean over and whisper something absolutely absurd about one of the characters—something so ridiculous I nearly choked on my drink. "Jenna," I groaned, shaking my head, "you can't just say stuff like that." She grinned, unrepentant. "Why not? I'm right." "You're insufferable." "You like it." I had opened my mouth to argue—to try and argue—but she had seen it coming, dodging slightly, giggling as she moved just out of reach. A challenge. One she should've known better than to throw down. "Oh, you think that's funny?" I asked, already shifting. Jenna caught the shift too late. "Wait—" Too late. I moved fast, my fingers finding her sides and tickling just enough to make her dissolve into laughter. She squirmed beneath my touch, her face scrunching up as she fought back. "No—!" she gasped between breathless laughs, pushing at my hands. "Okay—wait, stop—!" I didn't stop. Not yet. Not until she flipped the game, managing to shove me back against the cushions, her hands finding my shoulders as she straddled me. Her hair was a little messy from the scuffle, and her breath was still uneven from laughter. It should've been funny. It should've just been playful. But then, the laughter faded, the energy between us shifting, deepening into something else entirely. The show was still playing, but it may as well have been white noise now. Jenna's hands were still braced against my shoulders, and mine had settled against her waist without even thinking. Her eyes softened. Her breathing slowed. And then—she leaned in. It was slow, deliberate, her fingers trailing up the back of my neck, the warmth of her palms grounding, anchoring, claiming. I barely had time to react before her lips pressed against mine, soft, sure, and aching with something I couldn't quite name. I kissed her back just as eagerly, sinking into the moment, into her, every thought slipping away until there was nothing left but the way she felt, the way she tasted, the way she was. When she finally pulled away, she lingered, eyes searching mine, lips parted like she was trying to remember how to breathe. And then, just above a whisper, she said, "Promise me." I swallowed, still catching up. "Promise you what?" Her fingers traced absent patterns at the nape of my neck, eyes flickering over my face like she was memorizing me, holding onto me. "Don't watch it without me." I let out a breathy laugh, tilting my forehead against hers, my own hands tightening slightly at her waist. "That's what you're thinking about right now?" She didn't smile. Didn't waver. "I'm serious." The weight of it hit me all at once. This wasn't about the show. This was about us. About her realizing, in real-time, just how much she was going to miss this—miss me. About her trying to hold onto something, even if it was as simple as a show we had made ours. My heart clenched, my throat tightening at the sight of her so bare, so unguarded. I cupped the side of her face, my thumb brushing against her cheek, offering her the one thing I could. "I promise," I murmured. "I'll promise you anything if it's gonna ease that pretty head of yours." She exhaled shakily, closing her eyes for half a second before pressing another kiss—softer this time—to the corner of my mouth, lingering like she didn't want to go. Like she didn't want this moment to end. I blinked back to the present. The frozen dinner sat untouched beside me. The TV screen still hovered over the show, and the cursor still hovered over the play. I swallowed hard, setting the remote down without pressing anything. Instead, I sat back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, and let the quiet settle in. Let myself miss her.

The ceiling had never felt so heavy. I had been staring at it for over an hour now, sprawled in the middle of my bed, drowning in the quiet. Not the kind that settled or soothed—not the kind I was used to. This was something else entirely. A weight. A presence of absence. The apartment felt bigger without her. I knew that didn't make sense. Jenna had never lived here—she had her own place, her own space, her own life that ran parallel to mine but never quite fully merged. And yet, she was in everything. In the lingering smell of coffee from the cup she had stolen that morning. The extra blanket still draped over the couch was the one she always wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. In the hoodie that was supposed to be hanging over the chair in the corner—but wasn't.

I had half a mind to call her out on it. To text her and say, You really couldn't leave me with that one, huh? But I already knew what she'd say. She had claimed it a long time ago—long before she threw it on, taking it with her. It's comfy. It smells like you. It's basically mine now.

The apartment was too still, too empty. My brothers were gone for the week, off on their annual Brother Week, which was essentially just an excuse for them to disappear on some poorly planned road trip and do whatever it was that brothers did when left to their own devices. Normally, I would have tagged along for at least part of it—keeping them from getting arrested or stranded in the middle of nowhere. But this time, I had stayed behind. And now I almost regretted it. At least with them here, the noise would have been enough to drown out the quiet, to keep me from feeling the way Jenna's absence had settled into my chest, deep and persistent. Mr. Noodles hopped onto the bed, landing against my side with an indignant little thump. He stretched out, pressing his warm little body against my ribs, tail flicking as he made himself comfortable. "Yeah, yeah," I muttered, running my fingers through his fur. His purr rumbled against me, steady and grounding like he wasn't concerned that the world had shifted under my feet. I exhaled, rolling onto my side, eyes flicking toward my phone. The screen was dark. No missed calls. No texts. I knew it was too soon. She was still in the air, somewhere between here and where she needed to be. Still caught in the in-between. And I was still here. Waiting.

The plane hummed, steady and rhythmic beneath her, but Jenna barely noticed. She had been staring at the same page of her script for the past ten minutes, eyes scanning over the words without really absorbing them. The reality of the past few hours was still sinking in—the goodbye, the kiss, the way your voice had wrapped around her name right before she turned to leave. Six months. She exhaled, shifting slightly in her seat, fingers tracing the corner of the page before flipping it shut. She wasn't getting any work done like this. "You always read scripts that intensely, or are you just trying to melt it with your eyes?" Jenna blinked, looking up to see the woman sitting next to her. She was familiar—not in a friend way, but in a Hollywood-you-know-of-each-other kind of way. Sophia Reyes. Rising indie darling, critically acclaimed for her last project. "Dangerous Hour" Sharp eyes, effortless charm. The kind of presence that lingered even after she left the room. Jenna smirked, setting the script aside. "I was trying to focus. Didn't work." Sophia hummed, tilting her head slightly. "Something more interesting on your mind?" Jenna hesitated for half a second but knew her silence was already an answer. Sophia raised a brow, a teasing smile pulling at her lips. "The person you kissed at the airport?" Jenna's stomach flipped, and she forced herself not to react too much. "You saw that?" "Not just me," Sophia said, shrugging. "A few of us. You weren't exactly subtle." Jenna huffed, shaking her head, but she could feel the heat creeping up her neck. Sophia leaned back in her seat, watching her. "So, partner? Lover?" She paused, then smirked. "Secret affair?" Jenna rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. She thought of your hands on her waist, the weight of your forehead against hers, the way you had whispered, "I promise you anything if it's going to ease that pretty head of yours." Her chest ached, but in a way that felt good. In a way, that told her you were still with her, even from thousands of miles away. She glanced back at Sophia, expression steady, voice firm. "They're my lover." Sophia's smirk didn't falter, but there was something thoughtful behind her eyes now. She hummed again like she was filing that information away for later. "Lucky them." Jenna didn't respond. Just leaned back into her seat, letting her eyes slip shut as the plane carried her further away from you. But before sleep could fully claim her, before the hum of the plane could lull her into something close to rest, a memory surfaced—one she hadn't even realized she had tucked away for safekeeping.

It had been raining that night. A slow, steady drizzle that made the city glow in slick reflections, puddles catching neon signs and stretching them into distorted colors. You had both been walking home from some late-night café run, hands stuffed into your pockets, shoulders brushing as you moved through the nearly empty streets. Jenna remembered shivering slightly despite the warmth of her jacket. It wasn't cold, not really, but the rain had a way of sneaking past layers and settling into her skin. You had noticed—because, of course, you had. Without a word, you had shrugged off your hoodie, the one she had been eyeing since the moment you met up that evening, and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. She had tried anyway. "You're going to freeze." You had just grinned, unfazed. "I run hot." She had rolled her eyes, but her fingers had curled into the fabric, pulling it tighter around her. It smelled like you—like coffee and something faintly sweet like the cologne you always swore you barely used. It was also warm, the residual heat from your body sinking into her own, and she hated how much she liked it. Hated how much she wanted to keep it. But the moment that stuck with her wasn't the hoodie or the rain or the way the streetlights painted everything in muted gold. It was when you had stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, head tilting up toward the sky. "What are you doing?" she had asked, hugging the hoodie closer. "Listening," you had said simply, eyes flickering back to her. "Doesn't it sound different at night?" She frowned slightly, confused, but then she listened. Really listened. When the world was quieter, the rain didn't sound the same. It wasn't just white noise. It was softer, almost melodic, weaving between distant car horns and the occasional sound of laughter spilling from a bar a few blocks away. She had never noticed before. But you had. And as she stood there beside you, her hair damp, your hoodie draped over her shoulders, she realized that was one of the things she liked most about you. The way you noticed things no one else did. The way you found something worth holding onto in the smallest, most ordinary moments. Jenna had looked at you then—looked at you. And maybe it was the rain, the streetlights, or the way your eyes softened when you caught her staring, but something had shifted. She had felt it. Later, when you had walked her back to her apartment, she had hesitated before stepping inside. Not because she didn't want to go in but because she wasn't ready to let the night end. You had sensed it because, of course, you had, and before she could second-guess herself, you had reached out—just the tiniest action, the briefest brush of your knuckles against hers. That had been enough. She had grabbed your sleeve and pulled you just a little closer. Not a kiss, not yet, but something close. A moment that lingered in the space between. "Keep it," you had murmured, glancing at the hoodie she was still wrapped in. "Looks better on you anyway." She had scoffed, but she hadn't argued. And when she had climbed into bed that night, the hoodie still faintly smelling like you, she had fallen asleep faster than she had in weeks. Now, thousands of miles away, Jenna let out a slow breath, fingers unconsciously curling against her arm, where the memory still lingered. Yeah. She could do six months. Because you'd still be there.

The wheels touched down smoothly, the faint jolt barely registering in Jenna's tired body. It was too early, but the city outside was already waking up, golden morning light stretching across the skyline as the plane taxied to a slow stop. She didn't waste time. The moment the seatbelt light dinged off, she reached for her phone, fingers moving on instinct before she even thought about it. The script was in her bag, and the emails were waiting for her—all of it could wait. She needed to hear your voice. Jenna stepped off the plane, adjusting her hoodie—your hoodie—over her head as she made her way through the private exit where her security team, Greg and Will, were already waiting by the car. Greg, the shorter one, was quick to flash her a grin. "Welcome back, boss. Miss us?" Jenna barely glanced at him as she slid into the backseat, phone in hand. "Yeah." Taller and quieter, Will shut the door behind her before entering the passenger seat. "Smooth flight?" "It was Fine," Jenna muttered, already pulling up your contact. Greg glanced at her through the rearview mirror, smirking as he started the car. "Didn't even hesitate. You calling them already?" Jenna ignored him. Will, ever the serious one, just exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Let her be, Greg." Greg shrugged, amused. "I'm just saying she barely got into the car before dialing. That's devotion, man." Jenna glanced at him but didn't bother defending herself. She tapped her screen, bringing the phone to her ear. The phone rang once. Twice. And then— "Jenna?" Your voice hit her like a punch to the chest. Immediate. Familiar. Like home. Her eyes fluttered shut, exhaling softly. "Hey, Slick." You sighed, and she could practically hear the relief in it. "You landed safely?" "Yeah. Just got in the car." She shifted, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie over her hands. "You stayed up, didn't you?" A pause. Then, quieter, "…Maybe." Jenna smiled. Greg made a mock gagging noise up front. "God, you're both so gone for each other. It's disgusting." Jenna reached over and smacked the back of his seat. Will sighed. "Greg, drive the damn car." But Jenna wasn't paying attention to them anymore, not when she felt the softest vibration against her wrist—a gentle buzz from the distance bracelet you had given her before she left. She looked down, her heart twisting. You had touched yours. Without thinking, Jenna pressed her fingers against it, signaling back. The moment she did, another vibration came in return. She exhaled slowly, eyes flickering shut for a moment. A memory bloomed in her mind—the weight of your arms around her, the warmth of your body against hers in that quiet moment before she left.

The suitcases stood by the door. Neither of you acknowledged it. Jenna stood before you, the soft glow of your bedroom lamp casting shadows along the curve of her cheekbones. The room was quiet, save for the city's hum outside and the fabric's faint rustle as she played with the bracelet. You had just fastened it around her wrist, fingertips brushing against her pulse point, lingering in a way that made Jenna's breath hitch. "It vibrates," you murmured, tracing the tiny sensor with your thumb. "When you touch it, mine will buzz too. So that you know, I'm thinking about you." Jenna swallowed, staring at the matching bracelet on your wrist. She lifted her gaze, eyes flickering between yours, and something shifted in her chest—something deep and heavy with the weight of missing you before she left. You smiled softly. "Go on. Try it." Jenna hesitated before pressing her fingertips against the bracelet. A second later, yours buzzed. Your eyes softened, and she felt that quiet pull between you—a connection, even in the distance. Jenna let out a shaky breath, and before she could stop herself, she stepped forward and pulled you in—arms tight, breath unsteady, chest pressing against yours. You caught her without hesitation, letting her fold into you. "I'm gonna miss you," you whispered against her temple. Jenna squeezed her eyes shut, tears silently falling. "You better." You laughed, soft and fond, before spinning her in your arms, earning a surprised yelp that turned into laughter. The moment slowed. Your forehead pressed against hers. She felt your breath fan across her lips, your hands steady on her back, anchoring her. "You'll use it when you miss me, right?" she murmured. You grinned. "Of course." But Jenna's fingers curled into the collar of your hoodie—her hoodie now, actually—and her voice was quieter this time, almost fragile. "Promise?" You reached up, fingertips brushing away the stray tears, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. "I promise," you murmured, your free hand resting on the small of her back. "Anything for you, Jen." She kissed you then. Slow. Deliberate. A silent, unspoken goodbye that wasn't a goodbye at all.

| -Tara Carpenter x Secret Admirer Reader- |

Summary: It starts with a note—small, unsigned, tucked into Tara’s locker like a secret waiting to be unraveled. One at her usual café, slipped between the pages of a book she was reading. Each one too personal, too knowing, referencing moments and memories she didn’t realize someone else had been holding onto. The final note—a time, a place. The answer is waiting in the dark; the admirer is finally ready to be seen.

Word Count: 3.5k

The final bell sliced through the low hum of conversation, a signal that sent students spilling into the hallways like floodgates had been opened. The usual chaos of end-of-day energy buzzed around you—weekend plans being made, lockers slamming shut, the steady stream of people funneled toward the exit.

Beside you, Tara walked quickly, fingers toying absentmindedly with the edge of an envelope she had just pulled from her locker—another one. “Alright, let’s see what my little ghostwriter has to say today,” she mused, already peeling it open. Mindy, Chad, and Anika slowed their steps just enough to listen, equally nosy and entertained. Chad groaned. “Again? What is this, like, the third one this week?”

“Fifth,” Tara corrected, unfolding the note with the same air of nonchalance she had every time, as if it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t slowly picking apart the edges of her mind. Your stomach twisted as she smoothed the paper, eyes scanning the words before reading them aloud. "I wonder if you ever noticed how they looked at you that night at the ice cream shop. The way you made it hard for them not to fall. The way you always do."

Silence.

Anika let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s kind of... romantic?” “Or creepy,” Mindy added, arms crossing. “Who even remembers that night?” You did.

You remembered how Tara had ordered her usual—chocolate with sprinkles—then, for unknown reasons, attempted to balance the entire cone on the back of her hand. She’d made it three steps before it tumbled, a mess of melted ice cream and laughter, the kind that doesn’t just fade away but settles somewhere deep, like an old song stuck on repeat. And maybe, you had looked at her a little too long that night. Tara scoffed, shoving the note into her pocket with practiced ease. She played it off like it was nothing and didn’t sit in the back of her mind like the others did. Like she wasn’t already dissecting it, wondering who had been watching her so closely.

If there was one thing about Tara Carpenter, she didn’t like not knowing.

The group stepped outside, the evening air crisp against your skin, thick with the familiar scent of damp pavement and the distant burn of street food carts from the edge of campus. Students filtered onto the sidewalks, peeling off toward dorms, Ubers, and whatever half-baked plans they had for the night. Chad slung his backpack over one shoulder, exhaling sharply. “This is getting weird,” he muttered, glancing between Tara and the half-crumpled note in her grip. “First the locker notes, then the one in your notebook, and now this?” He gestured vaguely at her pocket, like the mere presence of the letters was an affront to common sense. “How the hell are they even leaving them without you noticing?”

“They’re sneaky,” Mindy supplied, ever the voice of rational paranoia. “Or you just don’t pay attention.” Tara rolled her eyes. “You’re both being dramatic. It’s just some random admirer. No big deal.” Anika smirked. “You like the attention, though.”

Tara didn’t deny it. Instead, she shrugged, nonchalant, but there was something else beneath it—a flicker of thoughtfulness as her fingers absently brushed the edge of her pocket. “I just think it’s funny,” she mused, voice lighter than the look in her eyes. “They remember stuff. Specific things. They’re either incredibly observant or completely obsessed.” Quinn chimed in, “Or both” lips twitching with amusement. “And I, for one, think that’s hot.” Tara was right. The notes weren’t just recycled compliments or half-hearted poetry. They were deliberate—threaded with memories, details so specific they felt like echoes of something intimate. Little moments she hadn’t realized someone else had been holding onto.

As the group neared the edge of campus, the natural rhythm of parting ways set in. Chad was already absorbed in texting someone, Anika and Mindy were murmuring about where to get food, and Quinn peeled off toward the subway without a backward glance. But Tara lingered, hands stuffed in her pockets, shoulders loose but mind elsewhere. "You gonna keep them?" you asked, keeping your tone light, though something about the weight of her answer already hung in the air.

She glanced at you, then looked away just as quickly, a barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Probably. Maybe one day I’ll figure out who they are." Something was behind her voice, something layered beneath the teasing—a challenge, a certainty. She was already putting the pieces together, forming a list of possibilities.

And if she kept looking and followed the trail long enough, she would find the answer. The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time you and Tara found yourselves sprawled out in the living room of her apartment, an unspoken tradition after long school days. The coffee table was cluttered with remnants of a shared snack—half-eaten chips, a bottle of soda, Tara’s feet propped up like she had no intention of moving anytime soon.

Tara had all six notes fanned out in front of her, scanning them one by one, brow furrowed in concentration. You leaned over slightly, pointing at the most recent one about the ice cream shop.

“Alright, so whoever this is, they were there that night,” you said. “And they remembered it in a way that isn’t just casual. Like… ‘I saw you spill ice cream on yourself’ is one thing. But this?” You tapped the line Tara had read aloud earlier. The way you made it hard for them not to fall. “That’s personal.”

Tara hummed, running a finger over the note. “It could still be a coincidence.” You shot her a look. “Five other notes, Tara. At this point, it’s a pattern.” Before she could respond, unlocking the front door made you glance up.

Sam stepped inside, shrugging off her jacket. Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind outside. She blinked when she saw you both camped out on the floor, and then her gaze flicked to the scattered notes between you.

“… Okay. What conspiracy are we unraveling tonight?”

Tara sighed dramatically, tossing one of the notes toward Sam as she flopped back onto the couch. “I have a secret admirer.”

Sam caught the note midair, raising an eyebrow as she read it. She stayed quiet for a moment, then exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple like this was the last thing she needed to deal with tonight. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” Sam asked, already walking toward the kitchen. Tara smirked. “Why? You jealous?” Sam scoffed, opening the fridge. “I’m exhausted. And the last time someone started leaving weird messages around, I had to stab a guy, so forgive me for not being thrilled about this little romantic mystery.”

You chuckled. “Not everything is a potential murder, Sam.”

She shot you a pointed look as she grabbed a water bottle. “In this family? Everything is a potential murder.” Tara rolled her eyes, sitting up again. “Look, it’s someone in our friend group. They’d have to be close enough to know all these details about me.” You nodded. “So, let’s break it down. Who was at the ice cream shop that night?” Tara glanced at the notes again, thinking. “Me, you, Mindy, Anika, Chad, Quinn—”

“And Ethan,” Sam added from the kitchen.

You paused. “So basically… everyone we know.” Tara groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Great. That narrows it down.” Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Or… you could just not entertain this.” Tara ignored her, eyes scanning the notes again, fingers tapping idly against her thigh. The admirer had been careful, deliberate. But not careful enough. Someone in your friend group was watching.

The following note arrived at the usual hangout spot—Mindy’s apartment, where the group had piled onto the couch for their weekly horror movie night. The air smelled like popcorn and leftover takeout, and the coffee table was already littered with empty cups and snack wrappers.

Tara had been sitting beside you, legs tucked under her, fully prepared to ignore Chad’s commentary about why horror protagonists always make the worst decisions. But as she reached for her phone, a note brushed against her fingertips inside her jacket pocket. Her stomach sank as she pulled it out, carefully unfolding the small piece of paper, already knowing what it would be. Mindy noticed first. “Oh, for the love of—another one?”

Tara ignored her, smoothing out the paper as she read aloud.

"I wonder if you know how you pull people in without trying. How your laugh lingers, how your presence shifts the air. If only you could see yourself the way I do." The room fell silent.

Chad groaned dramatically, running a hand down his face. “Okay, that’s it. This is officially romantic stalker levels now.” Mindy leaned over, peering at the note. “Gotta admit… they’ve got a way with words.” Tara’s expression was unreadable, her thumb running over the ink as if she could feel the weight of the words. This was different from the others. More personal. The admirer wasn’t just watching her anymore. They were hoping she’d see them too. Anika nudged her playfully. “So, do you have any guesses yet, or are we still pretending this isn’t completely messing with your head?”

Tara huffed, folding the note carefully before tucking it back into her pocket. “I don’t know. It has to be someone close, but…” She trailed off, her gaze flickering briefly toward you before shifting away just as quickly. She wasn’t ready to finish that thought. Not yet. But she knew you would have her back whoever or whatever would happen next. The night air was crisp, cutting through Tara’s jacket as she adjusted the strap of her bag and fumbled with the keys in her pocket. The streets of New York were still alive around her, the dull roar of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from passing strangers, the rhythmic buzz of the city that never quite slept.

She was exhausted. A full day of classes, followed by an impromptu hangout at Anika’s place, had drained whatever energy she had left. All she wanted now was to get home, shower, and maybe—maybe—finally stop thinking about the secret admirer that had been slowly unraveling her brain for weeks. It had become a routine: a note here, a whisper of a memory there, moments from her life reflected at her like she was walking through a house of mirrors. She wasn’t sure when it had stopped feeling like a game. Tara stepped into the elevator of her apartment complex, jabbing the button for her floor before leaning against the cool metal wall. The ride up was quiet, the distant hum of the city fading into the background as she let her head fall back, exhaling slowly.

She was starting to think she’d never get an answer. Then the elevator doors slid open. And she saw it. A single envelope was placed carefully at the foot of her apartment door.

Tara stopped breathing.

It wasn’t wedged under the door like a delivery, nor had it been tossed carelessly to the side. It was placed deliberately, centered perfectly, as if waiting for her to pick it up.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she stepped forward, kneeling slightly to grab it, fingers trembling just a little as she turned it over in her hands. No name. No initials. Just a tiny, folded note, simple and unassuming. But Tara knew better. She exhaled sharply, pushing the door open with her shoulder before stepping inside, kicking it shut behind her as she walked straight to the couch, already unfolding the paper.

The handwriting was familiar now. She had spent weeks staring at it, tracing her fingers over the ink, memorizing how the words slanted slightly, like the writer had been hesitant and confident all at once.

But this time, it was different.

This time, there were no riddles, no carefully crafted phrases meant to make her think. This time, there was just a single message.

“Meet me on the rooftop. Sunset.”

Tara’s breath caught. There was no signature. No initials. Just instructions.

For the first time, the admirer wasn’t hiding behind poetic confessions or lingering memories. They were asking her to meet them. Her fingers clenched around the paper, pulse pounding in her ears.

She had spent weeks playing this game, reading notes, searching for connections, and chasing a shadow that refused to be caught. Now, they were stepping out of the dark. And she was going to see them. Her first instinct was to text you.

She didn’t know why—maybe it was because you were always there when she found these notes, the one person who didn’t roll their eyes or brush it off. Maybe it was because she trusted you to keep her grounded when things felt slipping out of her control.

Tara: You free?

You: Always. What’s up?

Tara:… meet me. Roof.

She hesitated before hitting send, but only for a second. She didn’t want to go alone no matter who awaited her.

When Tara pushed open the rooftop door, the sky melted into soft shades of orange and pink. The crisp evening air greeted her first, followed by the distant hum of the city below, but none of it registered—the moment her eyes adjusted to the dimming light, she stopped short.

The rooftop had been transformed.

Roses, carefully arranged, petals scattered across the surface. A table set for two, candlelight flickering inside small glass jars. A bottle of chilled sparkling grape juice sat in an ice bucket, beads of condensation forming along the glass, next to her favorite meal, plated with precision, waiting for her like something out of a dream.

Her breath hitched. She felt you step up beside her, the warmth of your presence grounding her before she could spiral.

"This is…” She trailed off, shaking her head. "Okay, what the hell?" She turned slightly, scanning the rooftop, waiting for someone to step forward. But no one did. No movement. No shadow emerging from the dimming light. The realization sent a strange chill down her spine.

No one was here.

She exhaled, a mix of frustration and disbelief curling in her chest. "I don’t get it. Who—" She stopped because you weren’t looking for anyone. You were looking at her. And suddenly, it was too quiet. Before she could speak and string together the thousands of questions screaming in her head, you opened your mouth. Tara’s mind was short-circuiting. The notes, the memories, the lingering glances that never seemed out of place until now—it was all you.

She didn’t know what to say.

For weeks, she had been searching for an answer, turning over every possibility, teasing out every clue, only to realize the answer had been standing next to her the whole time. Her jaw tightened as she exhaled sharply, trying to process it all. “You seriously had me running around like a lunatic over this?” You huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “In my defense, I didn’t think you’d go full FBI mode.”

Tara shot you a look, arms crossing. “You were writing me anonymous love letters. What did you expect me to do? … not wonder who the hell was obsessed with me?”You blinked. “‘Obsessed’ is a strong word.” Tara scoffed, pulling one of the notes from her pocket and unfolding it dramatically. “Oh, I don’t know. ‘I wonder if you know what you do to people’ seems intense.” You groaned. “Okay, yeah. Maybe a little obsessed.”Silence stretched between you for a beat. Then—Tara raised a brow. “So?”

Your brows furrowed. “So…?” She gestured vaguely. “Aren’t you going to explain yourself? Or am I supposed to be so charmed by this grand rooftop gesture that I swoon and fall into your arms?” You smirked, arms crossing. “Would that work?” Tara rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

You inhaled, exhaling slowly before shrugging. “Look… I wanted to tell you. I did. But every time I got close, you’d get excited about the mystery, and I—” You shook your head, running a hand through your hair. “I chickened out. I figured if you were looking for the answer, maybe—just maybe—you wanted to find it.” Tara tilted her head, considering you. “And if I didn’t?” You swallowed. “Then I guess I would’ve spent Valentine’s Day up here alone, eating an embarrassing amount of pasta and wallowing in my bad decisions.”

She let out a sharp breath, something like a laugh, and shook her head. “Jesus. You’re an idiot.” You grinned. “An idiot who likes you, though.” Tara bit her lip. Something in her expression shifted, something softer—dangerously close to fond. “... Yeah,” she murmured, not looking away this time. “I kinda figured that part out.” She was still standing close—too close—and suddenly, it wasn’t the city air making it hard to breathe. Tara’s gaze flickered over your face, searching, weighing something. 

“You made me go through all of this just to tell me something I probably already knew, didn’t you?” You smirked. “I dunno. I think you kinda liked the chase.” Her brows lifted. “Oh? That what you think?” You shrugged. “I mean, you didn’t have to come up here. You could’ve just ignored the note. Tossed it. Pretended you weren’t interested.”

Tara sucked in a slow breath, her lips curving ever so slightly. “… Maybe I like knowing how far someone’s willing to go for me.” Your heart stumbled out your chest. She was teasing, but something was dangerous beneath it—something honest.

You wet your lips. “Would you be mad if I kissed you right now?”

Then—she smirked.

“Depends,” she said, tilting her chin slightly. “Are you gonna make me chase you for that too?”, and just like that—you were done for. Because before you could think, before you could overanalyze or second-guess or do anything remotely rational, you leaned in.

Tara met you halfway, and suddenly, nothing else mattered.

The city faded. The roses, the flickering candlelight, the skyline stretching beyond the rooftop—all of it blurred, dissolving into the background the second her lips touched yours. She kissed you like she had been waiting for this—like she had spent the past few weeks unraveling a mystery only to realize she had been at the center of it all along.

She met you halfway, but it wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not after weeks of chasing a mystery, weeks of untangling riddles and second-guessing what she wanted. Now that she had you right in front of her—now that she knew it had always been you—she wasn’t going to hesitate. So she didn’t. Her hands slid up, gripping the collar of your jacket before moving—faster than you expected, rougher than you expected—to the back of your neck.

And then she pulled. There was nothing soft about it. Your breath barely had time to hitch before her lips crashed into yours—a collision, not a question. It was all at once—weeks of tension, wondering, and wanting, all spilling into how she kissed you now. Firm. Certain. You made a quiet, startled noise against her mouth, fingers twitching at your sides before finding their place—one hand pressing against the curve of her waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of her head.

She tilted her chin, deepening the kiss, swallowing the sharp breath you took like she wanted to keep it. Your head spun, lungs burning from how completely she had just stolen the air from them. When she finally eased up, she didn’t let go. Her fingers lingered against your skin, her grip still firm against your neck, like she wasn’t ready to step away. Her breath was uneven when she finally spoke. “Took you long enough.”

You exhaled a short laugh, forehead brushing hers. “Me? You’re the one who had me running all over the city like a detective.” Tara hummed, thumb tracing absent circles against the nape of your neck. “And yet, you still showed up.”You smirked. “Guess I like the chase."

Her lips twitched. “Not anymore, you don’t.” And just like that, she kissed you again. Slower this time. Still firm. Still claiming. This wasn’t an answer—it was a statement. A fact.

Your pulse was a wreck when she finally pulled back, but her hands were steady. She turned slightly, glancing toward the table—the one you had spent hours setting up, the one she was just now acknowledging. Her grip on your neck didn’t waver, but her lips curled as she exhaled.

“You went all out, huh?” You swallowed, still trying to remember how to function. “Yeah. I mean... figured if I was going to confess, might as well make it dramatic.” Tara hummed, finally letting her fingers slip away from your skin—slow, reluctant. She took your hand instead, tugging you forward. “Come on,” she murmured, leading you toward the table. She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smirking. “Let’s see what you planned for our first date.”