#sabrinastuff

coming to coachella had never been part of your plan.

your schedule had been packed, painfully so. calls, fittings for your upcoming movie, appearances stacked on top of each other until there was barely room to breathe, let alone fly out into the desert for something as spontaneous as watching your girlfriend headline one of the biggest stages in the world.

you had told her you couldn’t make it and you remember the way sabrina had smiled through it on the phone: soft, understanding, a little too quick to say “it’s okay, i get it.” like she didn’t want you to hear the small disappointment tucked underneath.

and you let her. for about…24 hours.

the decision happened fast: management shifted things around, flights got booked, someone somewhere pulled a favor, and suddenly you’re in a car driving through the heat-hazed roads of coachella valley, heart beating a little too hard against your ribs.

your outfit feels like a mix you and ‘brina: light, soft, and a little too pretty for the dust and smell of weed around you, but you don’t care. you never really have.

you clutch your phone in your lap, staring at the last text she sent you.

wish you were here </3

you smile to yourself. “yeah,” you murmur under your breath, eyes flicking up as the festival grounds come into view. “me too.”

backstage is louder than you expected.

not in volume, but in energy. everything moves fast so fast. people talking over each other, headsets crackling, racks of clothes being wheeled past like they’re part of some kind of organized chaos.

you’re guided through it all carefully, thank god.

“she’s about to go into a transition,” someone tells you, one of her stylists you think, clipboard tucked against her chest, eyes scanning everything at once.

she pauses when she looks at you properly, gaze softening a little in understanding.

“she’s been a little…” she hesitates, searching for the word. “bummed, i guess. trying not to show it.”

your chest tightens at that. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i know.”

the stylist gives you a small, knowing smile before stepping aside. “she’ll be in there. just uh don’t scare her too bad.”

you almost laugh. almost.

the music outside shifts. cheers start to swell, then dim, then rise again like a wave breaking against the stage.

and then, the curtain moves. she steps in hastily and you see her before she sees you.

slightly breathless, cheeks flushed, still glowing from the stage lights, energy clinging to her like something alive. she’s laughing at something someone behind her says, already halfway to the chair where they’re going to fix her hair, change her outfit, send her back out again.

but then she looks up and everything stops.

“-what?” it comes out barely above a breath, and you don’t move at first, suddenly nervous in a way you hadn’t been five seconds ago.

“hi baby,” you say softly.

and that’s all it takes before she’s crossing the room, not worried about anyone stopping her, hands finding your face like she needs to make sure you’re real and actually there, her big eyes wide and glassy and so, so bright.

“you’re here,” she says, voice breaking on the second word. “but you…you said-“

“i know,” you laugh a little, breath shaky. “i lied.”

she doesn’t even pretend to be mad. “you’re actually here,” she repeats, like she can’t quite process it, like if she says it enough times it’ll settle into something real.

you nod and that’s when she kisses you.

it’s immediate and overwhelming. her hands still on your face, pulling you closer like she’s been holding this in all day and doesn’t know how else to let it out.

you feel her smile into it before someone behind her clears their throat, half-laughing, half-reminding. “you’ve got like, thirty seconds.”

she pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead resting against yours. “you’re staying okay,” she says, not even a question.

“i’m not going anywhere.”

and that grin on her face, brighter than anything you’ve seen on stage, made everything you did to get here worth it.

“okay,” she breathes. “okay, i - god, okay.”

she squeezes your hands once, quick, grounding herself and you, before they start pulling her back into the whirlwind.

right before she disappears again, she leans in, presses one more quick kiss to your lips.

“watch from the side,” she says. “not the crowd. i want to see you.”

so you do.

you stand just off the stage, near where security lines the barricade, close enough that you can see everything clearly, far enough that you’re not actually in there’s crowd.

the lights hit harder from here and the music especially feels louder.

and sabrina, she’s different now. you can see it in the way she moves, the way she seems more lighter now, like something someone inside her clicked back into place.

her eyes sweep the side of the stage mid-performance, and when they land on you, you see it: that spark in her eyes and that oh so beautiful smile. and it’s not the performance smile, not the polished one, it’s yours.

the final moments come too soon.

the crowd is deafening now, lights flashing, energy peaking as everything builds toward the end.

then, that vintage convertible you’ve grown familiar with after 7 months of watching her plan rolls out onto the floor, headlights cutting through the haze, the moment cinematic in a way that almost doesn’t feel real.

she climbs in like she’s done it a thousand times.

the music swells and the crowd screams and the car starts to move.

you think that’s how it ends, until it doesn’t. because when she starts to get closer to the exit, near where you’re standing, it slows then comes to a complete stop.

there’s a split second where everything feels suspended. the crowd is confused.

you see her eyes search the crowd before landing on you and she leans out of the car.

“come here!” she yells, gesturing to you.

you don’t even remember moving. just the feeling of your heart in your throat, the sound of the crowd shifting into something curiois.

her hands reach for you, guide you just enough towards her, and then you’re there, right at the window of the car.

she grabs you, pulls you in like she did backstage, but this time there’s nothing quiet about it.

the kiss is deeper and more intentional than backstage.

the crowd erupts but you barely hear it, their screams just start to fade into background noise.

your hands are in her hair, her fingers tight against your waist

your hands sneak their way into her hair, her fingers tighten around your waist to pull you in deeper, and for a second it feels like it’s just the two of you in the middle of something impossibly loud.

when she pulls back, she’s smiling like she can’t help it. “hey there,” she says again, softer this time.

you laugh, breathless. “hi.” and then she’s gone again, the car starts to move away and the lights explode into their final sequence.

and the night ends with your heart somewhere still back on that stage.

the morning after is quiet, much more softer in a way the night never was.

sunlight spills through the curtains, warm and slow, settling across the bed where you’re half tangled together, bare limbs heavy with sleep and everything that came after the show.

she’s already awake. you can tell by the way her fingers are tracing absent patterns along your arm, slow, thoughtful, like she’s still processing everything.

“you came,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

you hum, eyes still closed. “i did.”

there’s a pause. then she shifts closer, pressing her face into your shoulder. “i’m really glad you did.” she mumbles.

that makes you smile. you turn slightly, brushing your nose against hers. “me too.”

she looks at you like she’s memorizing something.

then her phone buzzes. once. twice. again.

you both glance over at it. “…should we?” you ask.

she groans softly. “noo.” it buzzes again.

you laugh. “it’s probably bad.”

“it’s probably insane,” she corrects, but she’s reaching for it anyway and you grab yours too.

notifications flood the screen, all being mentions, tags, clips, screenshots.

comments stacking faster than you can even read them.

you glance at her and she’s already looking at you. slow smile spreading on both your faces.

“well,” she says, voice still rough from sleep, from singing, from last nights post-show activities. “guess that’s… out there now.”

you laugh softly, setting your phone down again like it can wait. “yeah,” you say and then, quieter now, “i think i’m okay with that.”