Bea had insisted on this. You, dressed up, standing by her side at an event you had no real business attending. An award thing—something big, something that cemented her as one of those artists. The kind that didn’t just make music but actually changed something. You were proud of her, obviously. Always. But the idea of stepping into a room full of flashing cameras, reporters, and industry people who actually knew what they were doing? Yeah, not exactly your scene.

You sat in the car, gripping the fabric of your pants, staring at the venue ahead. The red carpet was lit up like a stage, cameras already snapping away, voices calling for attention. Bea was made for this—confident, effortlessly cool, the kind of person who could make an entrance anywhere. You, on the other hand? You preferred to watch from the side, where things were quieter.

Bea, sitting beside you, noticed. Of course, she did. She’d spent the whole ride here drumming her fingers on your knee, leaning into your space, making dumb little jokes to keep you from getting too lost in your head. Now, she turned to you fully, one brow raised, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

“Don’t stress,” she said, nudging your arm. “Just stand there, look pretty, and let me do all the talking. Easy.”

You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head, but before you could argue, she grabbed your hand, fingers weaving through yours.

“I want you here,” she added, softer this time. “Not for show. Just… for me.”

The driver opened the door, and the noise outside surged—camera flashes, voices calling her name. Bea stepped out first, met with instant cheers, the energy shifting the second she hit the carpet. She soaked it in like it was nothing, flashing a grin at the crowd, throwing a wave to a few fans calling for her. But then, instead of walking ahead, she turned back, eyes locking on you, her hand still outstretched.

“C’mon, rockstar,” she teased, a challenge in her tone. “You survived worse. Like that time I made you do karaoke in front of—what, twenty people?”