Fading Echoes (OCxArianaGrande) [Being Re-Written]

Chapter 13 (Re-Written)

**DON'T FORGET TO VOTE!!**

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Le Rock- Rockefeller Plaza
SNL Afterparty
NYC, New York

Ariana's POV

I glanced up and spotted Benny walking in through the side doors of the studio, her short dark hair a little messy, falling just the right way over her forehead. Her bangs looked soft, still a little fluffy from where makeup must've brushed through them. I dropped my phone without realizing, a grin pulling across my face before I could stop it.

"Hey you," I said, my voice already warmer than I meant it to be.

She didn't even hesitate. Just walked straight up to me and pulled me in, one hand at my waist, the other brushing lightly down my back. Her skin smelled faintly like stage powder and cedar, a trace of cologne I knew by now was hers alone.

"You ready for the afterparty?" she asked. "The band's already making their way over."

I nodded, and before I could say anything else, I leaned up and kissed her softly. Just once. The kind of kiss you give someone who's still lit up from adrenaline and needs to know they're not alone.

"Yes," I whispered.

She smiled against my mouth and pulled back just enough to study me—like she was taking a mental picture of the moment.

Security was already getting into position. Bowen appeared behind us, coat half on, waving dramatically. "Alright, my little freaks! Let's not keep the afterparty waiting. I want frites and controlled chaos!"

I laughed, tugging my Yankees cap a little lower and sliding on my sunglasses. It was nearly midnight, but that didn't mean anything here. Everything still felt wide awake.

The studio door opened and we stepped out into Rockefeller Plaza.

Flash.

Flash.

The paps were already there. Fans too. Some of them started shouting Benny's name, a few screamed mine. Someone yelled, "Benny, that skit with Bowen was INSANE!" and she laughed under her breath, keeping her head down just slightly—but she didn't hide.

"There she is!"

"ARI! BENNY!"

Security flanked us on both sides as we crossed toward the restaurant across the plaza. Right there, tucked into the stone curve of the building, was Le Rock. Its tall black-trimmed windows gleamed under the plaza lights. The glowing letters above the door were bold and clear: LE ROCK. Through the glass, warm golden lighting spilled out across white table linens and mirrored walls. Inside, the restaurant looked like something out of a noir film—sharp, elegant, just moody enough to feel expensive.