The last chord barely finishes ringing before she finds you.

Maeve.

Your girlfriend. Godolkin’a golden girl. Top of her class. Future member of The Seven. She could’ve been anywhere else tonight, yet she chooses to be here for you.

She doesn’t even wait for you to step backstage. Her arms fine your waist like she’s done a hundred times before. The grip is firm, but not desperate — intentional, like she wants everyone in the crowd to know exactly who you’re going home with.

In her hands is a bouquet bigger than the one she brought last time, a ridiculous explosion of colors that scream “I love my girlfriend” and “fuck being nonchalant”.

Maeve’s lips graze your cheek, then your jaw. Her gaze cuts through your “fans” like a blade — and thank god she doesn’t have laser vision because that would’ve been messy.

“You did so good baby.” She murmurs, her voice is low and rough with the kind of praise that makes your knees weak.