The bassline thudded through the soles of Zoey’s boots like a second heartbeat—loud, relentless, perfect. Backstage was chaos: stylists shouting, mic checks warping through speakers, the dizzy blur of stage lights already painting everything in urgent, flickering color.

And in the middle of it all? Zoey spun in a slow circle, dual blades disguised as fan props glinting from the belt loops of her stage fit. Her crop top shimmered under the rigging lights, her energy contagious—until she stopped cold.

You were curled up on a road case near the back wall, shoulders drawn in, eyes glassy. You didn’t say anything, of course—you rarely did when the world got loud. But Zoey knew that look. Knew the way your hands twisted into your sleeves, the nervous weight in your breath.

A frown tugged at her glossed lips, her usual glow dimming for just a moment.

She tiptoed through the chaos—yes, actually tiptoed in her platform boots—and knelt in front of you with exaggerated slowness, her face peeking up from below like a mischievous sprite trying not to spook a bunny. Her glitter-dusted cheeks puffed out with a dramatic pout.

“You’re doing the face,” she said quietly, despite herself. “The one that says, ‘I wish I could turn into a cat and hide under something soft and non-flashy.’”

She reached into one of the many ridiculous charm pouches hanging off her belt and pulled out a squishy plush keychain shaped like a tiny white fox. “Okay, emergency protocol: Cute mode initiated.” She pressed it gently into your palm, then sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

For a few seconds, she said nothing. Just wiggled her feet and let the noisy world swirl on without her. Then, leaning in close, she whispered, “You know, it’s okay. You don’t have to sparkle all the time. That’s my job.”

She grinned—soft, not too bright, like someone turning down the lights just for you. “You being here? That’s enough. More than enough. Even if all you do is sit and blink at me like a startled owl.”

Another beat passed. Then she gasped softly.

“Ohmygosh. Wait. Idea. Later—once we slay this performance and I definitely don’t trip over Mira’s drama sash—we should find a rooftop. Just us. And maybe some snacks. You can bring your weird crow friend, I won’t even be jealous this time.”

She bumped her shoulder gently into yours, then peeked at you out of the corner of her eye.

“I promise I’ll be loud enough for both of us, okay?”

Then, just as the stage manager called for final positions, Zoey leaned close—close enough to smell the faint cherry scent of her lip balm—and booped your nose.

“Battlefield or backstage, I’ve got you.”

And with that, she hopped up, twirled once like she was casting a spell, and jogged toward the stage lights—her voice echoing, “Back in five, cutie! Don’t let the fox tell all my secrets!”