Owen was already at Jenna's apartment, settling naturally into his role as helper, focused on slicing tomatoes for the sauce with almost mechanical precision.
Beside him, Jenna handled everything else. The meat was already sizzling in the pan, the aroma of spices beginning to fill the kitchen, and with confident movements, she adjusted every detail.
"So…" Owen said without looking up, the knife keeping a steady rhythm against the cutting board, "what was it that you wanted to talk about that was so serious?"
"Curious?" Jenna replied, raising an eyebrow slightly as she glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
"Yes. I mean, you're always serious," he added with a faint smile, "but this time you sounded more serious."
Jenna didn't answer right away. She finished flipping the meat, lowered the heat slightly, and unhurriedly picked up her phone to start a timer. She set it down on the counter, as if every second needed to be under control. Then she crossed her arms and turned toward him.
"Am I always serious?" she asked, her tone not quite annoyed, but not entirely neutral either. "I didn't know you considered me boring."
Owen set the knife aside and looked up. "Hey, don't twist my words," he said, turning toward her. "Serious isn't the same as boring. A serious person is responsible, sensible… more reserved. But that doesn't mean they aren't fun." He paused slightly, stepping closer. "Like me."
He moved close enough to rest his hands on Jenna's waist and gently pull her toward him.
Jenna didn't pull away. On the contrary, she looked at him, and a smile slipped out before she could stop it. "You? Reserved?" she asked.
Owen went quiet for a second, clearly recalculating. "There are different kinds of serious people," he concluded.
Jenna nodded, accepting the argument.
She was serious. On set, and in everything that came with being an actress. Professional, focused, with a measured way of moving. She wasn't distant or antisocial, but she was more contained. She knew when to open up and when not to. In interviews, for example, she adjusted that register, appearing more approachable and warm, as if the trust already existed, even though it was perfectly controlled.
Owen, on the other hand, was also serious. But in a different way.
He was responsible, meticulous, and obsessive about his work. With a kind of discipline that left no room for mistakes. However, he wasn't reserved. Not in the traditional sense.
There was something about him that inevitably pulled him to the center. Not because he openly sought it, but because it ended up happening. The way he spoke, moved, and responded made it difficult to ignore him.
Part of it was that, in his latest projects, he hadn't just been an actor. He had been the producer and financier, the one making the important decisions. He couldn't afford to disappear between takes or limit himself to his character. He had to keep an eye on everything.
That made him, whether he liked it or not, the axis everything else revolved around. And outside the set, that difference became even more evident.
Owen didn't filter himself much. He didn't soften what he thought just to fit better. In interviews, on social media, and even in moments like award shows, he didn't follow the expected script. He had a way of saying things plainly that broke from the usual.
"I can name five moments where you were very fun," Owen said into Jenna's silence, as if he had already been listing them in his head.
"You don't have to," Jenna replied, gently brushing his chest, "boring and serious aren't synonyms."
"Great. Still, I can name five moments where you were very fun," Owen insisted, not backing down, since he had already thought of them.
"I can name ten where you were fun," Jenna shot back, as if it were a competition.
Owen raised an eyebrow. A faint smile formed on his face. "I can name twelve of yours."
Jenna narrowed her eyes, thinking for barely a second without breaking eye contact. "I can name fifteen."
They stayed like that, in silence, measuring each other, until the tension dissolved on its own.
Jenna let out a laugh.
"I don't know why I turned this into a competition," she said, shaking her head lightly.
"So," Owen resumed, stepping a little closer and gently brushing her cheek, "what was it that you wanted to talk about that was so serious?"
Jenna held his gaze for a moment, her expression hard to read. "What if it was all just a strategy to make sure you came over and helped me cook?" she finally said.
Owen watched her for a second. "That would be evil…" he said, "but very effective."
"It's not true," Jenna added quickly, smiling. "I wouldn't do that to you."
"There you go, another moment where you were fun," Owen replied.
Jenna laughed, but the laugh slowly faded. Her expression shifted, becoming more serious.
"The thing is…" she began.
She fell silent.
"I can't find the words…" she murmured.
She pulled away from him and walked toward the kitchen counter, turning her back to him. She placed her hands on the surface, as if she needed something steady to hold onto. Owen didn't say anything. He just raised his eyebrows slightly, giving her space.
"It's about our relationship," Jenna said as she turned around.
"What about it?" Owen asked.
"I've been thinking…" Jenna replied, taking a breath, "I don't want to hide it anymore. Handling everything with so much secrecy."
Owen didn't respond right away, so Jenna continued. "I like how things are now, being here, watching movies, cooking, talking… without noise. Without everything outside. With almost no one knowing."
She paused briefly, then added, "But I also want to be able to do normal couple things."
She looked at him directly.
"Go to a restaurant. Go out together. Not constantly worry about someone seeing us and having to act like we're just colleagues or just friends. Because we are a couple, right?"
Owen didn't hesitate. "Yes. We are."
It wasn't something they had formally defined with a specific conversation, but it didn't need to be. Three months were enough. The time they had spent together, the dynamic, and the way they treated each other.
Jenna nodded almost immediately. "Perfect," she murmured, letting out a small exhale. She had been a little nervous, more than she wanted to admit, about the possibility that Owen might be more distant, or that he might not be as sure as she was.
She quickly composed herself and continued, more fluid now. "But what I mean is, I want that. I want to be able to go out together. Go watch a movie like we did when filming The Spectacular Now ended, or go to an event together, like Sundance. I would've enjoyed it much more sharing it with you."
At Sundance, in reality, they had only had one day to actually enjoy the film festival, not counting the premiere and the work. The ski day. And even then, even that day, they had acted like colleagues in front of everyone. As if there was nothing more.
The room fell into silence, broken only by the steady sound of the pan and the soft bubbling from the stove.
"What do you think?" Jenna asked, a trace of anxiety slipping into her voice despite her effort to hide it.
Owen didn't answer immediately.
"I think you're right," he said finally.
Jenna let out a breath, almost without realizing it.
Owen continued, just as calmly, "It's been three months already. Keeping things like this doesn't make much sense. And I'd also like to do normal things with you."
"That's great," Jenna murmured, clearly relieved.
She hadn't been sure if Owen would agree. Part of her thought that, with his pace of life, with everything on his plate, it might be easier for him to keep things this way. Private. Simple. Living in the same building made it easy and practical.
Owen watched her for another second, noticing that lingering tension, and stepped closer. "You didn't have to be so nervous. I was already thinking about it too."
He placed a hand on her waist, pulling her slightly closer.
And before she could say anything, he kissed her.
Jenna responded immediately, returning the kiss, and when they pulled apart, a smile slipped across her face. "If you were already thinking about it, do you have any idea how to make it public?"
"I had one in mind. What about you?" Owen asked.
Jenna tilted her head slightly. "I don't know… I guess the usual. Go out to public places together and let the paparazzi handle the rest."
It was the simplest way. That alone would be enough. Leave the building together, grab a coffee, walk without hiding. The rumors would start on their own. Photos, speculation, and headlines. And at some point, an implicit confirmation, like holding hands or a closeness that couldn't be misinterpreted.
"And how were you planning to do it?" Jenna asked.
Owen watched her for a moment. "I have a new project. Very recent," he said. "And I was thinking about a role for you."
"A role?" Jenna repeated.
It didn't surprise her that Owen was already working on something new. In fact, it made sense. Lights Out and Good Will Hunting were already in stages where his presence wasn't as consuming as during pre-production and filming.
"Yeah. Wait here, five minutes, tops."
He didn't give any more details. He simply left the apartment quickly.
Jenna stood there watching him go, a mix of curiosity and a faint smile on her face. She turned her attention back to the kitchen almost out of habit, adjusting the heat, though her mind was still on the conversation, relieved that everything had gone well, and curious about what he had in mind for her.
A few minutes later, Owen returned. He was holding a notebook.
Jenna recognized it instantly.
A script.
Owen held it out to her. Jenna dried her hand with a kitchen towel, took it, and read the title.
"Black Mirror?" she murmured, opening it.
The first page read: Episode 1 — White Bear. She didn't go any further. She looked up at Owen.
"You have a role for me, and that's your way of making it public?" she asked, somewhere between curious and slightly amused.
It wasn't a bad idea. In fact, it made sense. Without even knowing what it was about, just seeing them work together, with Owen behind the project and her involved, would already create buzz. And if they also shared screen time, in something close or romantic, the outside interpretation would be immediate.
Owen gave a small nod. "Yes, the idea is for us to work together," he said, "but not exactly how you think."
Jenna looked at him, waiting for him to continue.
"There are no roles for us. Nothing to act. And definitely nothing romantic."
Jenna glanced down at the script for a second, processing it.
"We'll both be producers," Owen added calmly. "You, co-producer, to be precise."
Jenna looked at him, clearly surprised.
Owen knew she had been taking a production course. In fact, they had been doing it together.
He also understood something else. That while it was a role you could learn a lot about in practice, it wasn't just that. Not everything was trial and error.
Production, in many places, was a formal discipline. With structure, theory, and tools that didn't always show up on set. And Owen wasn't the kind of person who settled for learning on the fly if he could complement it with something more solid.
That's why the course. Not as a replacement for practice, but as a complement. A way to refine what he was already doing.
As for Jenna, she had always been interested in the entire filmmaking process. Not just acting. Since they had been together, that had become even more evident.
At dinners like this, or in any moment when they talked and Owen told her about his day, decisions, production problems, budgets, Jenna didn't just listen. She tried to understand it deeply. She asked questions and genuinely got involved in understanding everything.
It wasn't superficial.
She truly cared.
"Owen, I don't know," Jenna said, with a mix of excitement and caution. "I mean, it's great that you're thinking of me. I really want to do it. Everything I've learned lately being able to take it into something real…"
She hesitated slightly and continued, "But I don't know. It's risky for you. And I'm sure you're going to finance it, knowing you. A film isn't cheap. I don't want to ruin it."
Owen shook his head lightly, cutting her off. "It's not a film," he said. "It's a series."
Jenna blinked.
"What?" she said almost automatically. "A series? That's even riskier. Even you don't have experience in television…"
"Listen to me…" Owen said.
But before he could go further, both of them moved almost by instinct. The food couldn't wait any longer. They turned off the heat, started plating, and carried everything to the table.
As they ate, Owen explained everything.
Black Mirror was a dystopian science fiction anthology series. Each episode worked independently, but they all shared the same foundation: exploring the dark side of technology and its impact on human relationships and modern society.
The obvious question was why he was bringing something like that out of nowhere.
With Jenna, they had been watching The Twilight Zone. Jenna was a fan, she had seen it all and wanted to watch it again, this time with him.
Watching it had reminded Owen of Black Mirror from his original world, where it existed, and he had seen it in full.
That was where the inspiration came from. Of course, he didn't mention anything about other worlds. He simply said he had been inspired by The Twilight Zone, got motivated, and "created" this series, even though, for now, he only had the concept and the first episode.
Owen's idea wasn't to produce or finance an entire season from the start. He didn't want to spend his money on that, especially when his main focus was Friends.
His plan was a pilot: White Bear. He had chosen it from all the episodes.
From there, he would develop the rest of the season at the script level. Build a structured first season, around six episodes, and, with a finished pilot that clearly showed the tone, style, and real potential of the series, take it to platforms and studios to sell it.
Selling a script already generated money. But selling a full series package, with a solid concept and a completed pilot that demonstrated exactly what it was, took everything to another level.
An episode like White Bear, Owen estimated, could cost between one and three million dollars. It was one of the more contained episodes. No major special effects, more reliant on tension, narrative, and execution. And his idea was to work with unknown actors.
If he wanted to shoot all the episodes, aside from the considerable time it would take, the budget could easily climb to ten or fifteen million. Maybe more, depending on the type of story in each chapter.
Jenna, hearing that everything started with just a single forty-minute episode, felt it become much more tangible. It wasn't diving headfirst into a full series. It was a controlled first step.
The idea itself also appealed to her. That concept, close to The Twilight Zone, fascinated her. And the fact that she would be doing it with Owen completed the picture.
She said yes, she was in, without overthinking it. She meant it.
"If we do this… everyone's going to notice," Jenna said, somewhere between amused and excited.
Even more than if they shared the screen.
If it had been an acting project, a film or a short financed by Owen where he cast her, even in a romantic role, it would have sparked rumors, sure. But there would still be a layer of doubt. Jenna was an actress. They had already worked together. It could be justified professionally.
This was much more obvious.
Because as a producer, Jenna had no prior track record. This would be her first project in that role. And Owen choosing her directly for something like this, on his own project, wasn't going to go unnoticed.
It didn't leave much room for alternative interpretations. More than raising suspicions, it practically confirmed them.
"Told you, that was the idea to make it public," Owen said, taking a sip from his glass.
"I love it," Jenna said.
"Although…" she added, resting her elbow on the table with a smile, "they'll probably see me as a nepo baby. But, like girlfriend edition."
"Maybe," Owen admitted with a light laugh. "But just so you know, I'm hiring you because I've seen you these past months, and I trust you'll do a great job."
For Owen, it was actually a good thing to work with someone close to him. It made everything lighter. There was also a different level of trust and communication.
Jenna smiled, and they kept talking.
She shifted the focus. She asked about the meetings he had had with the studios interested in distributing Good Will Hunting.
Owen didn't hold anything back.
Jenna wasn't entirely surprised when he mentioned that one studio wanted to put up fifty million dollars to buy the film. She already understood the level Owen was operating at.
Even so, it was a number that was hard to ignore.
Owen didn't ignore it either. He had doubts. Not because he didn't trust the film, that wasn't the issue.
The issue was the math.
To match that offer with a distribution model like A24 or Neon, taking that 55% of post-theatrical revenue, the film would need to land around 190 million at the box office. Approximately.
A hundred million would leave about fifty after theaters. From that, his share would take him to around 27.5. Far below.
At 190 million, though, the scenario changed. Around 95 million net, of which 52 would be his.
Slightly more than what Searchlight was offering, but with one key difference: he would keep the IP. Which meant additional downstream revenue.
At that 190M mark, he would surpass Searchlight's offer.
The problem was getting there. Because they were talking about a drama. And a drama reaching 190 million at the box office wasn't normal. It was an anomaly.
In his world, the film had made 225 million in 1997. He remembered it clearly. But that didn't guarantee anything here.
The market was different.
The audience too.
Dramas, in the current era, didn't move in those ranges easily. Not even the most successful ones.
Manchester by the Sea, for example. Considered a total success, critically and commercially, had reached 77.5 million on an 8.5 million budget.
A great result.
But nowhere near 190.
That's why he hesitated. It wasn't a lack of confidence, he was being realistic.
Jenna listened to everything without interrupting, and when she spoke, she didn't do it from a numbers perspective.
She reminded him, simply, of something he himself said all the time.
To trust his project. That if he truly believed in the film, and everything pointed to that being the case, selling the IP now, for safety, would go against everything he had stood for up to that point.
The night continued on.
At some point, they were already in bed. Jenna slept beside him, her breathing calm and steady. The room was dim, barely lit by the faint light filtering in from outside.
Owen, on the other hand, was still awake.
He stared at the ceiling. Thinking.
The decision wouldn't leave him. It was still there, circling in his mind.
Part of him doubted. And part of him was seriously considering Searchlight's offer. The fifty million.
Immediate money.
His current funds weren't small, but they weren't infinite for the plans he had.
He had around 25.8 million dollars. That was already accounting for the budgets of Good Will Hunting, which ended at 13 million, and Lights Out, which everything suggested would close near 6. It wasn't all money spent yet, but in his head, it already was. They were commitments.
On top of that were the recent earnings from Paranormal Activity.
In the months following its theatrical run, November 2022, secondary revenue had already started coming in: TVOD, Blu-ray, initial licensing. Around 6.8 million so far. Money that was, in part, already available or soon to be settled.
Even so, it wasn't all clean. Taxes still had to be deducted.
But the real issue was what came next: Friends.
A series fully financed by him. Even without a final number, he knew it wouldn't go below twenty million. Probably more.
And it was risky.
A sitcom. A format that didn't dominate like it used to. It wasn't dead, but it wasn't at its peak either. It had strong years in the previous decade, yes, but that guaranteed nothing.
And on top of that, set in the '90s.
That wasn't something he wanted to change. But it added another layer of risk.
That was why fifty million looked like a good deal. And also why he wanted to do Black Mirror. Something that, beyond making him money for future projects, would help him establish himself as a creator and producer.
Yes, he would sell it, but he couldn't finance and produce everything himself. There were too many films and series from his previous world to bring over. At best, in a year, he could realistically complete only a few, two or three, maybe four if things went perfectly.
Because of that, at a certain point, it didn't make sense to hold onto everything.
Selling Black Mirror in this case, capitalizing strongly, and using that to build more.
Even so, he would still have the box office from Good Will Hunting, if he chose to keep the IP, and Lights Out. Even without reaching extraordinary numbers like the 225 million he remembered, both could generate enough to finance Friends and still leave him with a considerable cushion. Thirty, forty million, maybe more.
That wasn't small. Not even close.
Owen blinked, still staring at the ceiling. 'I'm starting to see thirty million as if it were nothing.'
The thought felt strange.
Not long ago, a number like that would have been unimaginable. Now he was measuring it as margin. As something insufficient compared to what he wanted to do.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
The next day, Owen received a final counteroffer.
From Neon.
They increased the percentage: 60% of post-theatrical revenue for him, 40% for them. The rest of the terms remained the same. It wasn't a minor adjustment.
On April 1st, Owen made the decision.
He couldn't stretch it any longer. The distributor needed real time to move, define festival strategy, prepare materials, and begin building the campaign toward Cannes.
He decided to trust what Jenna had told him. Not to sell the IP.
He chose Neon.
For three reasons:
First, their experience at Cannes. They knew how to position a film there.
Second, the marketing. Eighteen million, with an aggressive and well-targeted approach.
And third, and decisive, the percentage. That 60% of post-theatrical revenue tilted everything.
The terms were no longer equivalent.
They surpassed those of A24.
Because, honestly, if Neon hadn't made that last move, he probably would have chosen A24. The percentage was similar, and even if the marketing was lower, he already had a relationship with them.
But this wasn't about comfort. Business was business. He had a good relationship with A24, yes, but that didn't mean staying in the same place forever.
It was also important to open new doors. Build relationships with other distributors. And in this case, Neon was offering the best deal.
April began to move forward.
On April 3rd, Matt and the rest of the team departed for Georgia to begin filming Lights Out. Everything was prepared well enough that Owen didn't need to be physically there, but that didn't mean he disconnected.
Quite the opposite. Constant calls with Matt, the producer he had hired and who traveled to Georgia, budget reviews, and close monitoring of the shoot. He made sure everything stayed within plan, without unnecessary deviations. He trusted the team, but he never stopped supervising.
While formally closing the deal with Neon, Owen continued going to the Second Take Films offices. The main focus for Good Will Hunting was now clear, it had to be completely ready for Cannes.
Derek was still working on the edit. Owen spent time there, acting as support.
Then, he dedicated most of his time to Black Mirror. He and Jenna began to fully immerse themselves in this new project.
Across those three fronts, Owen moved through the month of April.
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