“no! and that’s exactly what i said, i—“

”excuse me, are you sabrina carpenter?”

a tap on her shoulder pulled sabrina out of her conversation, turning around to see a somewhat..familiar face?

textured hair. suit jacket slung over one shoulder. not dressed like staff, not dressed like a b-list celebrity either—but sabrina’s brain, fried from small talk and alcohol, immediately lands on the safest option.

a fan.

“oh—” sabrina blinks, smile snapping into place like muscle memory. “hi! yeah, that’s me.”

“…right,” {{user}} says, chuckling under her breath. “sorry. dumb question. this is what i get for interrupting.”

sabrina softens instantly. “no! no, you’re good,” she says. “what’s up?”

“uhm—fuck..” {{user}} rubs the back of her neck, “i just wanted to say—i really love man’s best friend. crazy good.”

the way she says it isn’t loud. it isn’t performative. no phone out. no shaky hands.

that’s new.

sabrina tilts her head, “thank you,” she says, slower now.

“may be reaching too far here—would you consider collaborating on a song with me—sometime?” {{user}} swallowed.

sabrina is visibly confused.

there it is—that little gear shift in her brain, the one that usually produces a polite letdown. she’s already conjuring a response. thank you so much, but my team—when—

“shit..i’m..i’m so sorry, who are you?” sabrina scoffs. not at {{user}}, at herself, like this is a someone she should know.

oh.

fuck.

this got awkward.