Laufey had insisted on this. You, dressed up, standing by her side at an event you had no real business attending. An award attribution—an important one. Something about recognizing her impact, her artistry, the way she had reshaped modern jazz. You were proud of her, beyond words, but the thought of stepping into a room filled with flashing cameras and sharp-eyed journalists made your stomach churn.

You sat in the car, gripping the fabric of your pants, staring at the venue ahead. The golden glow of the entrance lights spilled onto the red carpet, where photographers and reporters were already stationed, waiting. You had been nervous all the way here, but now, at the final moment, it felt overwhelming. You weren’t the one in the spotlight, but you knew how these things went. Pictures, questions, attention—things you never handled well.

Laufey, seated beside you, noticed. Of course, she did. She had reached for your hand more than once during the drive, her thumb running soft circles over your skin. Now, she turned to you fully, her expression warm despite the excitement in her eyes.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she murmured, voice low, reassuring. “Just stay with me. That’s all I want.”

She meant it. This wasn’t about appearances or showing you off. She had simply wanted you there, with her, for a moment that meant something.

The driver opened the door, and the muffled noise of the crowd outside became clearer. Laufey squeezed your hand one last time before stepping out first, the cameras flashing instantly as she greeted them with her usual grace. Then, she turned back, offering her hand to you, her eyes filled with quiet encouragement.

You took a breath. Then, finally, you reached for her.