Jenna Ortega Imagines (2)

Wildflower - T.C

2nd Person POV:

The first time Tara calls you a wildflower, you don't know if she means it as a compliment or a warning.

You're sprawled out in the quad, the late afternoon sun spilling over the patchy grass, painting her cheeks in shades of honey. She's lying beside you, her head tilted just enough that you catch her studying you in that way she does — half tender, half guarded, like if she looks too long she might give something away.

"Why're you looking at me like that?" You ask, squinting against the light.

She bites the inside of her cheek. "Because you're..." Her voice drifts, then steadies. "You're like a wildflower."

The word lodges somewhere deep in your chest. A thing fragile, fleeting, easy to crush underfoot. But also stubborn, sprouting in places no one expects, refusing to die even when storms roll in.

You don't answer. Not with words. Instead, you reach out, twirling a strand of her hair around your finger, and she lets you. The campus hums around you, laughter, footsteps, the metallic rattle of a skateboard. But with Tara, it always feels quieter. Like the world holds its breath just to listen.

-

Later that night, you're in her dorm, perched on the edge of her bed while she rifles through her desk for a charger. The room is dim except for the fairy lights strung along her wall, the glow softening the sharp corners of her face.

"Tara?" You murmur.

She hums without turning, still digging through a drawer.

"You scare me."

That makes her freeze. She looks at you, wide-eyed, a flicker of panic crossing her face before she masks it with irritation. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You fidget, tugging at the hem of your hoodie. "You make me feel... fragile. Like if you left, I'd fall apart."

Her jaw clenches, and she sets the charger down with deliberate care. When she crosses the room, she kneels in front of you, small hands resting against your knees. Her voice is low, sharp but trembling.

"You think I'm gonna leave you?"

You swallow hard. "You've been through hell, Tara. Ghostface. Woodsboro. New York. People you trusted turned out to be monsters. I'm just... me. I'm not permanent."

Her fingers curl tighter around you, and her eyes — dark, fierce — lock onto yours. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that."

You almost laugh, because she's so fiery, so alive, when all you can think of is the shadow of death that's always trailed her. But instead, you cradle her face in your hands, brushing your thumbs against her cheekbones.

"Okay." You whisper.

And she kisses you.

Not desperate. Not rushed. But slow, like she's been waiting forever for this moment. Like she's been terrified it would never come. Her lips taste faintly of cherry soda, and when she pulls back, her forehead presses against yours, her breath shaky.

"You're not fragile," she mutters. "You're the strongest person I know. And you're mine. Got it?"

Your chest aches with something you can't name. Maybe love. Maybe fear. Maybe both.

-

Weeks blur into each other, marked by stolen glances in lecture halls, late-night coffee runs, her head tucked against your shoulder as horror movies play on her laptop. Tara has scars you don't ask about, but sometimes you catch her tracing them absentmindedly, as if reminding herself she's still here. And every time, you lace your fingers through hers, grounding her.

But some nights, when the nightmares claw their way back, you hear her cry out. You wake to her shaking, her nails digging into your arm as though she's still fighting for her life. You whisper her name, rock her gently until her breathing evens. She never says thank you, never explains, but the way she curls against you afterward says enough.

You start to believe her wildflower thing. Because she is one too. Something beautiful that shouldn't have survived the storm but did anyway, blooming in spite of everything.

-

The day she takes you to the abandoned lot behind her building, you don't know what to expect. The ground is cracked, littered with weeds, but in the middle, sprouting defiantly through concrete, is a patch of wildflowers.

She stops, hands in the pockets of her jacket, watching you take it in.

"I found this place after..." She swallows. "After everything. I used to come here when I couldn't breathe. When I felt like the world was closing in."

You crouch, brushing your fingertips across the petals. Purple, yellow, white. Delicate but determined.

"They reminded me of you." She admits quietly.

You look up, and her eyes are glassy but steady.

"Not fragile," she says. "Just... too beautiful to ignore. Even when everything else is falling apart."

Your throat burns, and before you can stop yourself, you're pulling her into your arms, burying your face in her hair. She clings back just as fiercely, her body trembling against yours.

In that cracked, forgotten lot, surrounded by stubborn blossoms, you make a silent promise: that no matter how haunted her past, no matter how heavy her nightmares, you'll stay.

Because she was right. You are a wildflower. And so is she.

And wildflowers, even when trampled, always find a way to grow again.