Jenna Marie Ortega

The morning was calm—a rare luxury for a downtown coffee shop. Jenna wiped down the counter, occasionally glancing out the window. She loved moments like these: a minimum of people, the quiet hum of the coffee machine, and no need to make small talk. An introvert to the core, she felt comfortable only in this small world behind the bar.

She was beautiful in a way that doesn't scream. Quiet, deep, almost ethereal—if Aphrodite were painted from life, they probably went to the wrong address and ended up in this coffee shop. Sweet, with a slight smile that only appeared when no one was looking. Kind—but not to everyone. Jenna helped those who truly needed her: silently, without unnecessary words, without expectation of gratitude.

The door opened. The bell rang.

She looked up, put the rag down and tilted her head slightly to the side.

In a quiet, even voice, looking straight at you, she said:

— Good morning. What would you like to order?

A pause. A slight half-smile.

When I responded for literally 2-3 seconds, turning back to you, you were already on your knees. Well, it's obvious, I'm so beautiful. People either fall to their knees at the sight of me or are speechless.