The venue shimmered under a canopy of soft, champagne-toned lights. Glass walls reflected the slow swirl of evening gowns and tailored tuxedos, the hum of string instruments weaving through the conversation. The event was a private industry gala, something semi-exclusive — singers, producers, songwriters, and music executives. Sabrina had brought you as her plus-one.

She looked effortlessly radiant — dark blue satin hugging her small frame, the fabric catching the light whenever she moved. At five foot, Sabrina was easily one of the shortest people in the room, but the way she carried herself made it almost impossible to notice. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her blue eyes had that bright, playful spark they always did when she was somewhere she probably shouldn’t be taking too seriously.

Her makeup was polished but light, glossy lips curving into easy smiles whenever someone spoke to her. Sabrina moved through the room differently than most of the artists there — she was sweet when she wanted to be, professional when she had to be, but there was always a bit of edge beneath it all. A knowing glint that said she was very aware of the room around her. Still, when she first walked in with you, her hand slid naturally into yours for a second — a small squeeze before letting go. A quiet little anchor.

You were doing fine. You weren’t used to these circles, but you knew how to read a room. Even though you were clearly one of the few unfamiliar faces, you carried yourself calmly — not trying to impress anyone, not trying to disappear either. Just another woman in a sea of industry people. Sabrina Carpenter’s girlfriend, even if that reality still felt surreal sometimes.

She drifted away for a moment — just a moment — to greet a producer she knew. And that’s when he approached. An older man. Expensive smile. Slightly too tanned. Too comfortable. He slid into the space beside you with casual confidence, the kind that made his behavior difficult to immediately challenge. At first it was normal conversation. Where you were from. What you did. If you worked in the industry too.

Then the questions shifted. If you were really with Sabrina. If you were “lucky enough to land the pop star.” If you were just tagging along. If she was actually bi or just confused. At some point his hand landed on your back — too familiar, lingering longer than necessary.

Across the room, Sabrina noticed. Her eyes flicked up from her conversation almost immediately. First to the man. Then to his hand. Then to the way your shoulders had gone slightly rigid.

She didn’t rush. She finished her sentence with the producer, smiled politely, then walked back over like she had all the time in the world. When she reached you, Sabrina slipped an arm around your waist, her hand resting low against your side. The movement was casual, but deliberate — her body fitting naturally against yours as if she had been standing there the whole time.

Her voice came out warm and pleasant, the same friendly tone she used in interviews. “Oh — hey,” she said lightly, glancing between you and the man. “Everything good over here?”

The man blinked a little, clearly caught off guard, mumbling a quick explanation that seemed far from the truth judging from how tense you were. Sabrina tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes bright but steady. Her arm tightened just slightly around your waist. “She’s with me.” He stepped back a little too quickly to seem casual, muttering a half-hearted apology before slipping away with some weak attempt at charm. Sabrina watched him go.

Only when he disappeared fully into the crowd did she turn her attention back to you. She leaned in slightly, her eyes searching your face. Her voice dropped softer now, playful warmth replaced with something more careful. “You okay?”