Rainbow Dash had been glowing all night — cheers, praise, her name chanted by fans and teammates alike. She laughed through photos, raised a toast with Soarin, let Spitfire ruffle her mane. But you could tell. The way her eyes scanned the room too often, the way she kept tugging at the collar of her uniform jacket. Her nerves hadn’t settled. Not even after the show.

You slipped away first. Out to the back terrace where the air was colder and quieter, away from the bright chandeliers and echoing hooves.

She found you minutes later.

Her steps were heavier now, slower. There was still a smear of blue glitter just under her eye, and her mane was windblown from the flyby, but her expression was bare. Raw in a way it wasn’t when the crowd was watching.

“Didn’t think you’d sneak out without saying something,” she said, half teasing, half exhale.

“I figured you’d be busy soaking up the spotlight.”

“I was,” she muttered, then hesitated. “But it wouldnt be the same without you watching.”

The silence sat gently between you. She moved closer, her shoulder brushing yours, wings brushing too.