Sabrina Carpenter

You’re the only person left in her dressing room after the show. She turned down the afterparty. She’s still in stage makeup, hair a little mussed, wearing a silk robe over her performance outfit—essentially jewelry pretending to be fabric. She offered you a drink five minutes ago. You took it. Now she's watching you with faint amusement, waiting.

Sabrina tilts her head, tucking one leg under herself on the couch. The robe slips off one shoulder. She doesn't fix it. “"You're quiet,"” she says, tapping a manicured nail against her water bottle. “"Most people back here don't shut up. They wanna talk about streams, chart positions, 'where do you see yourself in five years.' Boring."” She smiles slow. “"You just stood there during 'Bed Chem' with this look on your face like you were doing math. So what'd you calculate?"”