Then again.
Then she stops walking.
“What?” I ask.
Her mouth drops open. “Oh my god.”
She turns the screen toward me.
A picture of us. Front row. The guys in mid-chaos. Dex with his hands in the air. Mason yelling. Bryce’s sunglasses somehow still on. Me clapping like I’m watching a game-winning goal.
The caption reads:
Raina was incredible tonight. And look who else are apparently huge fans.
Below it, more posts. Different angles. Different phones. The same moment.
Sloane lets out a breathy laugh that sounds dangerously close to happy tears. “This is… this is huge.”
“For her?”
“For her,” she says quickly. “For exposure. For the label conversations next month.” She looks at me, eyes bright. “You have no idea how much this helps.”
I shrug. “I think I’m starting to.”
She shakes her head, smiling to herself as she keeps scrolling. “People are tagging her. Asking who she is. Following her already.”
She looks up again, softer now. “Thank you.”
I don’t make a joke this time. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do,” she says. “Tonight mattered.”
We walk a few blocks in comfortable silence before she gestures toward a corner bar still glowing with late-night energy.
“This place is nice. Let's go here.” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s celebrate.”
Inside, it’s quieter than the theater. Low music. Dim lights. The kind of place where conversations lean closer by default.
We sit in a booth in the back of the bar. She orders a cosmopolitan. I order a beer.
She exhales once the glass hits the table. “I was nervous.”
I glance at her. “Didn’t show.”
“I always am,” she says. “I just hide it better now.”
“Well,” I say, lifting my bottle slightly, “Congratulations. Raina crushed it.”
Her smile turns proud. “She did.”
“And you did too,” I add.
She studies me for a second, then looks down at her drink like she needs the moment to land.
An hour slips by without either of us noticing.
