meeting at the grammys 🏆
you and sabrina meet for the first time at the 2026 grammys.
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pairing: sabrina carpenter x reader
words count: about 2.3k
contents: brief use of Y/N, not so accurate events, strangers to romantic interests, alcohol consumption
author’s note: this is my first time writing something this long, and i hope you guys like it. i may or may not have been inspired by sabrina's' interactions with benito at the grammys 🥹 let me know what you think of it! dividers by @pixopix <3
The night feels electric before you even step out of the car, like the air itself is charged with anticipation. It hums against your skin and buzzes in your ears. The kind of energy that only exists when history is about to be made. When the door opens, cameras flashes erupt instantly—rapid, blinding bursts of white that explode like fireworks against the dark Los Angeles sky.
The red carpet stretches ahead in a river of silk and diamonds, a current of people dressed not just to impress, but to be remembered. Every smile is calculated. Every pose deliberate. Everyone here is dressed to leave a mark.
And then there’s her.
Sabrina Carpenter stands at the edge of the carpet like she was conjured out of a fairytale. Not simply beautiful—curated, luminous, intentional. The kind of presence that draws attention without asking for it. Conversations subtly tilt in her direction. Cameras linger a fraction longer.
Her dress is a soft ivory crafted in layers that catch the light like mist at sunrise. The fabric shifts with every step she takes, almost alive. The bodice is structured with a sweetheart neckline that frames her collarbones, jeweled straps resting delicately against her fair shoulders. Crystals bloom across the corset in constellations, glittering under the flashes every time she moves. It’s romantic and dramatic.
The skirt cascades in layered tiers—airy and theatrical. It moves like it understands timing, floating when she walks, trailing behind her in a gentle, whispering train. And draped over her shoulders is the faintest veil of a tulle cape—translucent, weightless, almost unreal. It gives her that split-second, breath-catching quality that makes people pause mid-sentence.
A modern princess, but make it pop star.
2025 belonged to her in a way that only happens once in a career, if you’re lucky. Chart-topping singles that refused to leave the radios. A sold-out tour that turned venues into choirs. Viral performances dissected frame by frame. Cultural takeover. She’s nominated in six categories tonight, and the press has already written think pieces predicting multiple wins before the ceremony has even begun.
You had a year like that, too.
A breakthrough album that critics called defining. A fanbase that multiplied faster than you could process. Your face on billboards. Your name on headlines. Your lyrics quoted back at you by strangers. Tonight, you’re both seated at the tables reserved for the industry’s golden children.
And somehow, you haven’t met yet.
The first crack in expectations happens early in the night.
A pre-telecast award. Her name is called as a nominee. The envelope opens.
She loses.
There’s the smallest flicker in her expression—so fast it’s almost invisible. A quick inhale that barely lifts her chest. The tiniest tightening on her shoulders. But then the practiced smile slides into place, effortless and gracious.
She’s competitive. She won’t pretend she isn’t. That fire is part of what got her here. But she doesn’t let the loss dull her glow.
Not tonight.
Because when she performs Manchild, she detonates the room.
She’s changed into a sharp, tailored, pilot-inspired look—sleek lines, structured shoulders, a silhouette that draws attention. It’s playful authority, flirtatious control. She struts across the stage like it belongs to her, like she built it from scratch. Her vocals slice clean through the arena, crisp and teasing. The choreography is magnetic, every movement intentional, every glance weaponized.
The attitude is tongue-in-cheek but razor sharp. Her expressions are theatrical, exaggerated in just the right ways—a raised brow here, a smirk there. She plays with the camera like it’s in on the joke.
You watch from your table, elbows resting against your knees, leaning forward without meaning to.
You’ve seen her online. Of course you have. Everyone has. Clips. Interviews. Performances. Memes.
But seeing her in person is different.
She’s shorter than you expected. Brighter than you expected. Louder in presence than anyone else in the building. The kind of charisma that bends the atmosphere around it.
When she locks eyes with the camera during the bridge and smirks, it feels borderline illegal.
When the performance ends, you clap. Not politely or because cameras are sweeping the crowd. Genuinely.
And when she scans the audience during the applause, letting her gaze drift over familiar faces... She sees you.
Finally sees you.
You’re standing. Applauding like you mean it. No restraint. No industry coolness.
Her eyes linger half a second longer than necessary.
Later, the category for Best Pop Vocal Album is announced.
Your category.
Her category.
The camera takes turns between nominees. She sits straight, hands folded elegantly in her lap like she’s mastered stillness. You sit upright too, but there’s tension in your shoulders, in the way your fingers curl against your knees.
“And the Grammy goes to... Y/N.”
For a moment, you don’t move. The sound hits you before the meaning does. The room erupts—cheers, applause, the scrape of chairs against the floor.
You stand slowly, heart hammering against your ribs, vision slightly blurred at the edges. And without consciously deciding to, your eyes search the crowd.
They find her instantly. She’s already looking at you.
There’s something amused in her expression—not bitter, not resentful. Not even surprised. Just... Impressed.
She smiles knowingly. Then she begins to clap, steady and deliberate.
It grounds you more than anything else could in that moment.
You walk to the stage.
Your speech is heartfelt and emotional. You thank your team, your family, your fans. Somewhere in the middle, you glance out again.
She’s still watching.
When you finish, the applause swells. And when you walk back toward your table, the eye contact doesn’t break.
The rest of the ceremony turns into a silent game between you two.
Stolen glances across tables. Tiny smiles. Raised brows at questionable jokes. When Trevor Noah delivers a bad punchline, you both react at the same time—identical expressions of barely concealed disbelief. When another artist wins, you both clap enthusiastically—a little too enthusiastically, like you’re daring each other not to laugh.
It’s subtle. No one else would clock it. But it’s there, a chemistry that crackles like a live wire stretched between two tables.
Then comes the final award of the night.
Album of the Year.
You’re nominated. She’s nominated.
The tension thickens, pressing against your lungs.
“And the Grammy goes to—”
Your name. Again.
The room explodes into chaos. A standing ovation. People shouting. Someone claps your shoulder.
You stand, stunned, and this time, you look at her first.
She exhales, then laughs softly to herself before clapping. There’s disappointment in her eyes. She wanted it—of course she did. But beneath that, there’s something else.
Curiosity.
She looks at you like you’re something worth studying.
Your second speech is longer. You’re overwhelmed now, words tangling together, gratitude spilling everywhere.
When you return to the floor, everything shifts.
Because now the night is yours.
And she’s walking toward you.
You’re halfway through hugging your producer—still a little dazed, still floating somewhere between adrenaline and disbelief—when you feel a shift in the air behind you. Not dramatic. Just a subtle change, like the room recalibrates around a new center of gravity.
You turn, and there Sabrina is.
Up close, she’s devastating in a way that feels almost unfair. The ivory of her dress is softer under the dimmer lights now, glowing rather than sparkling. Her perfume reaches you—warm, clean, with something faintly sweet underneath.
“Okay,” she says, placing a hand dramatically over her heart, eyes wide with theatrical offense. “First of all? Rude.”
You blink, still catching up. “Rude?”
She nods solemnly, committing fully to the bit. “You couldn’t leave me one? Just a little pity Grammy? As a treat?”
The way she says it—mock wounded but playful—knocks a real laugh out of you. A startled, honest one.
She notices and her grin widens, pleased.
“Congratulations,” she continues, her tone softening just enough to let sincerity slip through. “That speech? Very Oscar-coded. I was like, should I be crying? Should I stand? Do I throw flowers?”
“Please don’t throw anything at me.”
“Oh, I absolutely could’ve. I’m very strong.”
You tilt your head, letting your gaze sweep over her for a second longer than necessary. “I can tell.”
Her eyes drop briefly, assessing you in return, before lifting back up to meet yours. There’s interest in those blue depths.
“And your performance?” you say, shifting the focus before your body betrays you. “Unfair. Genuinely. You hypnotized half the crowd.”
She shrugs, pretending nonchalance, but there’s pride tucked into the corner of her mouth. “I mean… I did look hot. That helps.”
“Understatement of the year.”
Her eyes flash at that.
“You’re charming,” she says, studying you now rather than joking. “It’s dangerous.”
“I could say the same about you, Cap.”
She laughs instantly at the reference to her pilot look, shoulders shaking. “Stop. I commit to a bit.”
“It worked.”
She leans in slightly. “I noticed you giving an standing ovation after my performance.”
Your heart stutters. “You did, huh?”
“I notice everything.”
“And you?” You counter, because you refuse to be the only one flustered. “You were already looking at me before they called my name.”
She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even try to do so. Instead, she tilts her head slowly, considering it.
“Maybe I had a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“That if I didn’t win,” she says, her eyes steady on yours, “at least it would be someone interesting.”
The air between you thickens. Just enough to make it hard to breathe normally.
Across the room, someone calls her name. Another hand lands on your shoulder, asking for a photo. The industry doesn’t pause for tension.
She steps back just slightly. “There’s an after-party happening later. You going?”
“I was planning to.”
“Good.” She smooths her skirt, composure sliding effortlessly back into place. “Because I’d hate to lose to you twice and not at least get a drink out of it.”
“You’re competitive.”
“Painfully.”
“I like that.”
Her smile widens at that.
“See you soon,” she says.
The after-party is a different world entirely. Gone are the rigid seating charts and choreographed applause. The venue hums with low lighting and heavy bass, champagne gleaming under warm gold fixtures. The air smells like expensive perfume and adrenaline finally being exhaled. Heels are abandoned. Ties loosen. Laughter turns reckless now that no one’s being judged.
You scan the room before you even realize you're doing it, and there she is. Across the space, near the bar.
The tulle cape is gone, revealing the clean lines of her shoulders. Her hair is slightly tousled now, less red carpet perfection and more lived-in glamour. She’s holding a Limoncello Spritz, glass balanced effortlessly between her fingers, laughing at something someone says—head tipped back, looking breathtaking and achingly real.
And then, like she can feel it, she looks at you. There’s recognition instantly.
She excuses herself mid-sentence, brushing someone’s arm with a quick apology, and walks straight toward you.
“Hey, Grammy hog,” she says as she reaches you, tone bright and teasing.
“Hi, almost-Grammy hog.”
She gasps, hand to chest. “Cheeky.”
“You started it.”
“True.” She takes a slow sip of her drink, eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the glass. “So. Be honest. Are you always this insufferably talented, or was tonight special?”
“Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”
She hums thoughtfully, like she’s genuinely weighing that. “Is it working?”
“Depends. Is it?”
She studies you intentionally then, like she’s flipping through pages, reading between lines.
“Unfortunately,” she says at last, “yes.”
You start talking.
At first about the obvious things—music, touring, the chaos of 2025. But the conversation shifts naturally. About pressure. About burnout. About how surreal it feels to be praised and idolized by strangers who don’t know you at all. About the loneliness that sneaks in even when arenas are full.
She’s sharper than people give her credit for. Quick in a way that feels effortless. Funny in a way that creeps up on you and then lands hard. Self-aware enough to joke about her own ambition without pretending it doesn’t exist. She's a strong, intelligent woman, and you're drawn to that.
At some point, you’re sitting on a velvet couch tucked into a darker corner of the room. Your knees brush, and neither of you moves away.
At another point, you start leaning in instinctively when she talks. Like you’re afraid if you don’t, you’ll miss something important.
A photographer approaches, camera already lifted.
She waves them away without turning fully. “Sorry,” she says sweetly, flashing a practiced smile. “I’m busy networking.”
You laugh, and she bumps her knee against yours in satisfaction.
Hours go by without feeling like they do. Songs change. Drinks are refilled. The room thins out.
Finally, she glances at her phone to check the time, the glow lighting her face from below. “I should probably go before I do something that ends up on Twitter.”
“That's probably wise.”
She stands, smoothing her dress absentmindedly. There’s a flicker of hesitation in her gaze, like she doesn't want to leave just yet. Then she reaches for your hand.
“Give me your phone.”
You raise an amused brow. “Wow. Moving fast.”
She rolls her eyes, although she’s smiling. “I just want to give you my number. I need to make sure you won’t disappear.”
You hand it over and she types quickly, thumbs efficient. Hands it back.
You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face when you see her name in your contacts.
“Text me,” she says.
“I will.”
She steps closer again. Close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath against your ear as she leans in.
“Next year,” she whispers playfully, confidence woven through every syllable, “I’m taking at least three Grammys from you.”
You turn your head slightly, just enough that your mouths are almost brushing. Close enough that if either of you moved a fraction, you would kiss.
“Looking forward to it.”
She pulls back slowly, grin sharp and satisfied. And then she disappears into the crowd, blonde hair glowing under the warm lights.
You stay where you are for a long moment, heart still racing.
And as the night continues spinning around you, you realize something.
Maybe the best thing you won tonight wasn’t a Grammy at all.
tags: @lomlcamy, @maddwoman